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AIR  MEN  O'  WAR 


BY   THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

BETWEEN  THE  LINES 
$i.So  net 

ACTION  FRONT 
$i.So  net 

DOING  THEIR  BIT 
$1.25  net 

GRAPES  OF  WRATH 
$1.50  net 

FRONT  LINES 
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E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


AIR  MEN  O'  WAR 


BY 


BOYD  CABLE 


"  GRAPES  OF  WRATH,"   "  FRONT  LINES,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1  Fifth  Avenue 


Copyright 1919 
By  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


i       i 


•JS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO  ALL 

AIR   MEN    O'    WAR 

and  especially  to  those  who  are  or  have  been 

on  the  western  front,  whose  hospitality  and 

friendship  i  have  enjoyed,  and  to  whose  help 

and  interest  these  tales  are  largely  due,  this 

book  is  dedicated  as  a  tribute  of  admiration 

and  a  token  of  cherished  friendship  by 

The  Author. 
In  the  Field, 
September  6th,  1918. 


395814 


FOREWORD 

It  has  been  my  endeavour  throughout  these 
tales  not  only  to  chronicle  some  of  the  wonderful 
work  done  m  the  air,  but  also  to  show  the  con- 
nection between  it  and  that  of  the  Armies  on 
the  ground,  the  assistance  rendered  in  so  many 
ways  by  the  air  arm,  and  its  value  in  a  battle 
and  in  a  campaign.  I  hope  that  my  stories  may 
show  something  of  the  skill  and  daring  of  the 
air  men  and — what  is  less  well  known  to  the 
public — how  much  they  are  doing  to  save  the 
lives  and  cut  down  the  casualties  of  the  men  on 
the  ground,  and  to  help  our  arms  to  victory. 

Already  I  have  been  rebuked  for  exaggerating 
and  making  my  characters  perform  impossible 
feats,  so  I  may  forewarn  the  reader  that  I  have 
written  nothing  here  for  which  I  cannot  find  an 
actual  parallel — and  in  some  cases  even  more 
wonderful — fact.  Practically  every  incident  I 
have  pieced  into  my  tales  has,  to  my  own  knowl- 
edge, occurred,  and  I  have  left  untold  many 
which  for  sheer  sensationalism  would  beat  these 
hollow.  There  are  many  in  the  Air  Force  who 
will  recognise  incidents  and  feats,  but  will  not 
recognise  the  characters  I  have  attached  to  them, 
because — mainly  at  the  urgent  wish  of  the 
men  themselves — I  have  used  entirely  fictitious 

vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

characters  and  names  throughout.  Because 
most  of  the  writing  was  done  while  the  R.N.A.S. 
and  R.F.C.  were  still  in  existence  I  have  left  this 
as  written. 

I  ask  the  indulgence  of  critical  readers  amongst 
the  air  men  to  any  technical  errors  they  may 
discover  (knov/ing  how  keenly  they  will  look  for 
them).  I  make  no  pretence  to  being  a  flying 
man  myself,  but  because  I  have  done  flying 
enough — or  rather  have  been  flown,  since  I  am 
not  a  pilot — to  know  and  appreciate  some  of 
the  dangers  and  risks  and  sensations  of  the  work, 
and  have  lived  for  over  a  year  in  the  Squadrons 
at  the  Front,  I  cherish  the  hope  that  I  have 
absorbed  enough  of  the  nature  and  atmosphere 
of  the  work  to  present  a  true  picture  of  the  life. 
I  shall  be  very  well  content  if  I  have  been  able 
to  do  this,  and,  in  any  slightest  degree,  make 
plain  how  vital  to  success  a  strong  Air  Force  is. 
I  have  had  experience  enough  of  the  line,  and 
have  gained  enough  knowledge  of  the  air,  to  be 
tremendously  impressed  with  the  belief,  which 
I  have  tried  in  this  book  to  pass  on  and  spread, 
that  every  squadron  added,  every  man  trained, 
every  single  machine  put  in  the  air,  helps  in  its 
own  measure  to  bring  us  to  final  victory,  more 
quickly,  and  at  a  less  cost  in  the  long  and  heavy 
'' butcher's  bill"  of  the  war. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE 

I.  S 

iLVER  Wings      .       .       .       . 

PAGE 

.        1 

11.  E 

RING  Home  the  'Bus 

.     14 

III. 'a 

L  Tender  Subject     . 

.     32 

IV.  A 

L  Good  Day        .       .       .       . 

.     46 

V.  A 

L  Rotten  Formation 

.     57 

VI.  ^ 

luiCK  Work        .       .       .       , 

.     68 

VII.  1 

'he  Air  Masters 

.     80 

VIII.  '' 

The  Attack  was  Broken" 

.     94 

IX.  I 

F  They  Knew . 

.  107 

X.  1 

["he  Fo-fum's  Reputation 

.  120 

XI.  I 

jIke  Gentlemen 

.       .  131 

XII.  ' 

^AiR  Activity"   . 

.  146 

XIII.  1 

?HE  Little  Butcher 

.       .164 

IX 


X 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB 

PAOC 

XIV. 

A  Cushy  Job     . 

.       .  178 

XV. 

No  Thoroughfare  . 

.  185 

XVI. 

Thrills       .... 

.       .   196 

XVII. 

The  Sequel 

.       .  212 

XVIII. 

The  Raid  Killers  . 

.       .  232 

AIR  MEN  O'  WAR 


SILVER  WINGS 

An  old  man  working  in  one  of  the  aircraft  fac- 
tories once  complained  that  he  was  not  very 
satisfied  with  his  job.  "IVe  got  three  boys 
out  Front,  all  in  the  infantry;  and  I  keep 
thinkin*  to  myself,  Why  shouldn't  I  be  doin' 
some  sort  of  munition  work  that  'ud  help  my 
own  three  boys?  I  don't  know  a  livin'  soul 
in  the  Flyin*  Corpse;  why  should  I  be  workin' 
for  them,  an'  not  makin'  shells  or  bombs  or 
suthin'  that  'ud  be  helpin'  my  own  three  boys?" 

And  then  somebody  told  him  how  he  was 
helping  his  boys,  what  the  work  of  the  air  ser- 
vices really  meant,  how  the  artillery  observation, 
and  photographing,  and  bombing,  and  directing 
the  guns  on  to  hostile  batteries  and  machine-gun 
emplacements,  and  so  on,  all  worked  up  to  the 
one  great  end,  to  making  the  task  easier  for 
the  infantry,  to  saving  the  lives  of  the  men  on 
the  ground ;  and  told  a  few  stories  of  some  of  the 
ninety  and  nine  ways  this  help  works  out. 

The  old  man  was  fully  satisfied  and  grateful 
1 


for  all  that  was  told  him,  and  declared  he'd  go 
back  to  his  job  with  twice  the  heart —  "just 
knowin'  I'm  doin'  mebbe  the  best  work  I  could, 
and  that  I'm  givin'  real  help  to  my  own  three 
boys." 

Amongst  the  tales  told  him  the  one  of  "Silver 
Wings"  perhaps  impressed  him  most,  and  that, 
probably  because  it  bore  more  plainly  its  own 
meaning  of  help  to  the  infantry,  was  more  easy 
to  make  clear  than  the  technicalities  of  artillery 
observation  and  the  rest. 

And  just  because  it  is  such  a  good  instance 
of  how,  after  all,  the  chief  or  only  end  and  aim 
of  the  air  services  is  the  helping  to  victory  of 
the  men  on  the  ground  this  story  of  "Silver 
Wings"  may  be  worth  the  telling  here. 

Hard  fighting  had  been  in  progress  for  some 
days,  and  the  flying  men  had  been  kept  desper- 
ately busy  from  dawn  to  dark  on  the  various 
branches  of  their  several  works,  when  a  "dud 
day" — a  day  of  rain  and  squalls  and  hurricane 
winds — gave  them  a  chance  to  rest. 

Toward  afternoon  the  weather  showed  signs 
of  abating  a  little,  and  word  came  through  to 
the  Squadron  to  which  "Silver  Wings"  belonged 
asking  if  they  could  get  a  machine  in  the  air 
and  make  a  short  patrol  over  the  line  on  a 
special  reconnaissance.  A  heavy  and  un- 
pleasantly gusty  wind  was  still  blowing,  but  a 
pilot  and  machine  were  picked  for  the  job  and 
presently  made  the  attempt.  An  anxious 
Squadron  Commander  and  a  good  many  of  the 
pilots   watched   the   trial   and   saw   the   quick 


SILVER  WINGS  3 

result.  The  machine  was  brought  out  with 
mechanics  hanging  to  the  wing-tips  to  steady 
her  against  the  gusts,  the  engine  started  and 
given  a  trial  run  up;  then  the  pilot  eased  her 
off,  looked  round,  felt  his  controls,  ran  the 
engine  up  again  until  his  machine  was  throbbing 
and  quivering  to  the  pull  of  the  whirling  pro- 
peller, and  waved  the  signal  to  haul  away  the 
chocks  that  blocked  his  wheels.  His  machine 
began  at  once  to  taxi  up  into  the  wind,  still 
swaying  and  swinging  dangerously,  and  then, 
in  answer  to  the  pilot's  touch,  Hfted  clear  of 
the  ground,  ducked  a  second,  rose  again  and 
swooped  upward.  The  watching  crowd  let  go 
a  breath  of  relief  as  she  rose  clear,  but  before 
the  breath  was  out  it  changed  to  a  gasp  of 
horror  as  the  machine,  caught  by  some  current 
or  eddy  of  wind,  swerved,  heeled,  righted  under 
the  desperate  effort  of  the  pilot,  slipped  side- 
ways, and  with  a  sudden  swoop  plunged  and 
crashed  on  the  ground.  The  machine  was  hope- 
lessly smashed  and  the  pilot  was  dead  when 
they  ran  and  came  to  him  and  picked  him  up.     i 

The  Squadron  Commander  would  have  aban- 
doned or  postponed  the  attempt  to  get  a  machine 
up,  but  the  pilot  of  "Silver  Wings"  spoke  to 
him  and  urged  that  he  be  allowed  to  have  a  try. 
"I'm  sure  I  can  get  her  off,"  he  said.  "I'll 
take  her  right  over  to  the  far  side  of  the  ground 
clear  of  the  currents  round  the  sheds.  I  know 
what  she  can  do,  and  I'm  certain  I  can  make  it." 

So  the  Major  gave  a  reluctant  consent,  and 
they  all  watched  breathlessly  again  while  "Silver 


4  SILVER  WINGS 

Wings''  fought  her  way  along  the  ground  against 
the  wind,  lifted  suddenly,  drove  level  for  a 
hundred  feet,  swooped  sickeningly  again  until 
her  wheels  were  a  bare  six  feet  off  the  ground, 
hoicked  up  and  away.  Everyone  could  see 
by  her  dips  and  dives  and  sudden  heelings  and 
quick  righting  how  bumpy  and  gusty  the  air 
was,  and  it  was  not  until  she  was  up  several 
hundred  feet,  and  came  curving  round  with  the 
wet  light  shining  on  her  silvery  planes  that  the 
watchers  on  the  ground  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief, 
watched  her  streak  off  down  wind,  and  swing 
in  a  climbing  turn  that  lifted  her  farther  and 
farther  into  the  safety  of  height. 

*'He's  all  right  now,"  said  one.  "Only,  the 
Lord  help  him  when  he  comes  to  land  again.'' 
The  hum  of  the  engine  droned  down  to  them, 
and  the  shining  wings  wheeled  again  close  up 
against  the  dark  background  of  the  low  clouds 
and  shot  swiftly  down  wind  towards  the  Hues. 

Over  the  lines  she  turned  again  and  began 
to  fight  her  way  across  wind  and  moving  slowly 
north.  The  wind  constantly  forced  her  drifting 
over  Hunland,  and  in  accordance  with  his 
orders  to  hold  close  along  the  front,  the  pilot 
had  to  keep  making  turns  that  brought  him 
facing  back  to  the  west  and  fighting  slowly  up 
wind,  edging  off  a  little  and  slanting  north 
and  watching  the  landscape  slide  off  sideways 
under  him.  And  so,  tacking  and  manoeuvring 
buffeted  and  wind-blown,  he  edged  his  way  along 
the  front,  his  eyes  alternately  on  the  instrument- 
board  and  on  the  ground  and  puffing  shell  smoke 


SILVER  WINGS  5 

beneath,  his  ears  filled  with  the  roar  of  his 
engine  and  the  shriek  and  boom  of  the  wind 
beating  about  him,  his  hands  and  feet  in  con- 
stant motion,  juggling  with  controls,  feeling, 
balancing,  handling  the  throbbing  horse-power 
and  the  wind-tossed  fabric  under  him.  And 
so  at  last,  at  the  end  of  a  hard-fought  hour,  he 
came  to  the  spot  he  sought,  circled  and  *'sat 
over  it^'  for  five  minutes,  and  watched  and 
tried  to  pick  up  the  details  of  the  struggle  that 
spluttered  and  spat  in  smoke-puffs  and  flashing 
jets  of  fire  and  leaping  spouts  of  earth  and 
smoke  beneath  him.  He  began  to  piece  to- 
gether the  meaning  of  what  he  could  see,  and 
of  what  he  had  been  told  before  he  set  out.  A 
body  of  our  infantry  in  the  attack  had  gone 
too  far,  or  their  supports  had  not  come  far 
enough,  with  the  result  that  they  had  been 
cut  off  and  surrounded  and  were  fighting  desper- 
ately to  hold  off  the  infantry  attacks  that  pressed 
in  on  them  under  a  heavy  supporting  artillery 
fire.  The  cut-off  party  were  hidden  from  the 
view  of  our  front  line  by  a  slight  ridge  and  a 
wrecked  and  splintered  wood,  and  their  desperate 
straits,  the  actual  fact  of  their  still  being  in 
existence,  much  less  their  exact  location,  was 
unknown  to  our  side.  This  much  the  pilot 
knew  or  was  able  to  figure  out;  what  he  could 
not  know  was  the  surge  of  hope,  the  throb  of 
thankfulness  that  came  to  the  hard-pressed 
handful  below  him  as  they  saw  the  glancing  light 
flash  from  his  hovering  '^Silver  Wings."  They 
made  signals  to  him,  waving  a  dirty  flag  and 


6  SILVER  WINGS 

straining  their  eyes  up  for  any  sign  that  he  saw 
and  understood.  And  with  something  very 
near  to  despair  in  their  hearts  they  saw  the 
shining  wings  slant  and  drive  slowly  up  into 
the  wind  and  draw  away  from  over  their  heads. 

'*No  good,  Jones/'  said  a  smoke-  and  dirt- 
grimed  young  officer  to  the  man  still  waving  the 
flag.  ''He  doesn't  see  us,  I'm  afraid.  Better 
put  that  down  and  go  back  and  help  hold  off 
those  bombers." 

''Surely  he'd  hear  all  this  firing,  sir,"  said 
the  man,  reluctantly  ceasing  to  wave. 

"I  think  his  engine  and  the  wind  drowns  any 
noise  down  here,"  said  the  officer.  "And  if  he 
hears  anything,  there's  plenty  of  heavy  gunfire 
all  along  the  front  going  up  to  him." 

"But  wouldn't  he  see  the  shells  falling 
amongst  us,  sir,  and  the  bombs  bursting,  and 
so  on?"  said  the  man. 

"Yes;  but  he  is  seeing  thousands  of  shells 
and  bombs  along  the  line  from  up  there,"  said 
the  officer;  "and  I  suppose  he  wouldn't  know 
this  wasn't  just  a  bit  of  the  ordinary  front." 

Another  man  crawled  over  the  broken  debris 
of  the  trench  to  where  they  stood.  "Mister 
Waller  has  been  hit,  sir,"  he  said;  "an'  he 
said  to  tell  you  it  looks  like  they  was  musterin' 
for  another  rush  over  where  he  is." 

"Badly  hit?"  said  the  officer  anxiously. 
"All  right,  I'll  come  along." 

"He  sees  us,  sir,"  said  the  man  with  the  flag, 
in  sudden  excitement.  "Look,  he's  fired  a 
light." 


SILVER  WINGS  7 

"Pity  we  haven^t  one  to  fire,"  said  the  oflficer. 
"But  that  might  be  a  signal  to  anyone  rather 
than  to  us." 

He  turned  to  crawl  after  the  man  who  had 
brought  the  message,  and  at  the  same  moment 
a  rising  rattle  of  rifle-fire  and  the  quick  follow- 
ing detonations  of  bursting  bombs  gave  notice 
of  a  fresh  attack  being  begun.  Still  worse,  he 
heard  the  unmistakable  tat-tat-tat  of  renewed 
machine-gun  fire,  and  a  stream  of  bullets  began 
to  pour  in  on  them  from  a  group  of  shell-holes 
to  their  right  flank,  less  than  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  broken  trench  they  held.  Under  cover 
of  this  pelting  fire,  that  forced  the  defenders  to 
keep  their  heads  down  and  cost  them  half  a 
dozen  quick  casualties  amongst  those  who  tried 
to  answer  it,  the  German  bombers  crept  closer 
in  from  shell-hole  to  shell-hole,  and  their  grenades 
came  over  in  faster  and  thicker  showers.  The 
Uttle  circle  of  ground  held  by  the  group  belched 
spurts  of  smoke,  hummed  to  the  passage  of 
bullets,  crackled  and  snapped  under  their  im- 
pact, quivered  every  now  and  then  to  the  crash 
and  burst  of  shells.  They  had  been  fighting 
since  the  night  before;  they  were  already 
running  short  of  ammunition,  would  have  been 
completely  short  of  bombs  but  for  the  fact  of 
the  ground  they  had  taken  having  held  a  con- 
creted dug-out  with  plentiful  stores  of  German 
bombs  and  grenades  which  they  used  to  help 
out  their  own  supply.  The  attack  pressed 
savagely;  it  began  to  look  as  if  it  would  be 
merely  a  matter  of  minutes  before  the  Germans 


8  SILVER  WINGS 

rushed  the  broken  trenches  they  held,  and  then, 
as  they  knew,  they  must  be  overwhelmed  by 
sheer  weight  of  numbers.  Waller,  the  wounded 
officer,  had  refused  to  be  moved.  ''I'll  stay 
here  and  see  it  out,''  he  said;  ''I  don't  suppose 
that  will  be  long  now;"  and  the  other,  the 
young  lieutenant  who  was  the  only  officer  left 
on  his  feet  by  this  time,  could  say  no  more  than 
a  hopeful  ''Maybe  we'll  stand  'em  off  a  bit  yet," 
and  leave  him  there  to  push  along  the  trench 
to  where  the  fire  and  bombing  were  heaviest 
and  where  the  rush  threatened  to  break  in. 

The  din  was  deafening,  a  confused  uproar  of 
rifles  and  machine-guns  cracking  and  rattling 
out  in  front  and  banging  noisily  in  their  own 
trench,  of  bombs  and  grenades  crashing  sharply 
on  the  open  or  booming  heavily  in  the  trench 
bottom,  of  shells  whooping  and  shrieking  over- 
head or  crumping  savagely  on  the  ground,  and, 
as  a  background  of  noise  to  all  the  other  noises, 
the  long  rolling,  unbroken  thunder  of  the  guns 
on  both  sides  far  up  and  down  the  lines. 

But  above  all  the  other  din  the  lieutenant 
caught  a  new  sound,  a  singing,  whirring  boo- 
oo-oom  that  rose  to  a  deep-throated  roar  with 
a  sharp  staccato  rap-tap-tap-tap  running  through 
it.  He  looked  up  towards  the  sound  and  saw, 
so  close  that  he  half  ducked  his  head,  a  plunging 
shape,  a  flashing  streak  of  silver  light  that 
swept  over  his  head  and  dived  straight  at  the 
ground  beyond  his  trench,  with  stabbing  jets 
of  orange  flame  spitting  out  ahead  of  it.  A  bare 
fifty  feet  off  the  ground  where  the  Germans 


SILVER  WINGS  9 

crouched  in  their  shell-holes  '^ Silver  Wings" 
swooped  up  sharply,  curved  over,  dived  again 
with  the  flashes  of  her  gun  flickering  and  stream- 
ing, and  the  bullets  haihng  down  on  the  heads 
of  the  attackers.  It  was  more  than  the  Germans, 
lying  open  and  exposed  to  the  overhead  attack, 
could  bear.  They  scrambled  from  their  holes, 
floundered  and  ran  crouching  back  for  the 
shelter  of  deeper  trenches,  while  the  heutenant, 
seeing  his  chance,  yelled  and  yelled  again  at  his 
men  to  fire,  and  seized  a  rifle  himself  to  help 
cut  down  the  demoralised  attack.  He  could 
see  now  how  close  a  thing  it  had  been  for  them, 
the  weight  of  the  attack  that  presently  would 
have  swarmed  over  them.  The  ground  was 
alive  with  running,  scrambling  grey  figures, 
until  the  bullets  pelting  amongst  them  cut 
them  down  or  drove  them  headlong  to  cover 
again.  Then  his  men  stopped  firing  and  watched 
with  hoarse  cheering  and  shouts  the  dives  and 
upward  leaps  of  the  silvery  shape,  her  skimmings 
along  the  ground,  her  upward  wheeling  cUmbs 
followed  by  the  plunging  dives  with  fire  spitting 
and  sparkhng  from  her  bows.  The  Germans 
were  firing  at  her  now  with  rifles  and  machine- 
guns  until  she  turned  on  the  spot  where  these 
last  were  nested,  drove  straight  at  them  and 
poured  long  clattering  bursts  of  fire  upon  them 
until  they  were  silenced. 

Then  she  turned  and  flew  over  the  broken 
British  trenches  so  close  that  the  men  in  them 
could  see  the  leather-clad  head  and  arm  of  the 
pilot  leaning  over  the  side,  could  see  his  wave 


10  SILVER  WINGS 

to  them,  the  flung  packet  that  dropped  with 
fluttering  streamers  down  amongst  them.  The 
packet  carried  a  note  jerkingly  scribbled  in 
pencil:  ^^Hang  on.  I'm  taking  word  of  where 
you  are,  so  that  they  can  send  help  to  you. 
Good  luck." 

The  lieutenant,  when  he  had  read,  handed 
the  message  to  a  sergeant  and  told  him  to  pass 
it  along  round  the  men.  And  they  read  and 
shouted  cheers  they  knew  he  could  not  hear 
to  the  pilot  hfting  the  "Silver  Wings"  steadily 
into  the  sky  and  back  towards  the  lines.  He 
was  high  enough  now  for  the  '^ Archies"  to 
bear  on  him  again,  and  from  their  trenches  the 
men  watched  with  anxious  hearts  and  throbs 
of  fear  and  hope  the  black  puffs  of  smoke  that 
broke  rapidly  above,  below,  and  about  the 
glinting  silver.  He  made  desperately  slow  speed 
against  the  heavy  wind,  but  fortunately  had 
not  far  to  go  before  he  was  far  enough  back  to 
be  over  the  lines  and  out  of  reach  of  the  Archies. 
Then  just  when  it  seemed  that  he  was  safe, 
when  the  Archie  shells  had  ceased  suddenly  to 
puff  about  him,  the  watchers  saw  another 
machine  drop  from  the  cover  of  a  cloud,  dive 
straight  down  on  the  little  silver  shape,  saw  the 
silver  wings  widen  as  they  turned  sharply  up- 
ward to  face  the  enemy,  wheel  and  shoot  side- 
ways to  avoid  the  dive.  With  beating  hearts 
and  straining  eyes  they  watched  the  two  dipping 
and  curving,  lifting  and  diving,  wheeling  and 
circling  about  each  other.  The  battle  noises 
drowned  all  sound  of  their  guns,  but  they  knew 


SILVER  WINGS  11 

well  the  rapid  rattle  of  fire  that  was  going  on 
up  there,  the  exchange  of  shots,  the  streaming 
bullets  that  poured  about  both,  thought  at 
last  they  could  catch  the  sound  of  the  firing 
clearly,  could  see  the  black  cross  and  circled 
red,  white,  blue,  that  marked  enemy  and  friend 
as  the  two  machines  drifted  back  in  their  fight- 
ing down  wind  until  they  were  almost  overhead. 
Once  the  watchers  gasped  as  the  enemy  dived  on 
''Silver  Wings''  and  she  slipped  sideways  and 
came  down  a  thousand  feet  nose  first  and  spinning 
in  dizzy  circles.  The  gasp  changed  to  a  cry  of 
reUef  as  the  "Silver  Wings"  righted,  zoomed 
sharply  up,  whirled  round,  and  in  turn  dived 
on  the  enemy  machine,  that  had  overshot  his 
pursuing  dive  and  come  below  her.  And  the 
cry  changed  again  to  a  yell  of  applause,  a  burst 
of  cheers,  as  the  enemy  swerved  suddenly,  slid 
drunkenly  sideways  and  down,  rolled  over,  and 
fell  away  in  a  spinning  dive,  swoop  after  sicken- 
ing swoop,  that  ended  crashing  in  a  clump  of 
wood  half  a  mile  away.  A  wind-blown  torrent 
of  streaming  black  smoke  marked  the  place  of  the 
fall  and  the  fate  of  the  enemy.  ''Silver  Wings" 
turned  again,  and  fought  her  way  back  towards 
the  lines,  with  the  Archie  shells  puffing  and 
splashing  about  her. 

Down  in  their  trenches  the  isolated  cluster  of 
men  set  about  strengthening  their  defences 
with  new  heart,  made  with  a  new  hope  prepara- 
tions to  withstand  the  next  attacks.  It  was 
not  long  before  they  had  help — a  help  that  the 
guns,   knowing  now  exactly  where  they  were 


12  SILVER  WINGS 

although  they  could  not  see,  could  send  in 
advance  of  the  rescuing  attack.  A  barrage  of 
shells  began  to  pound  down  beyond  them,  out 
to  their  right  and  left,  and  even  behind  them. 
** Silver  Wings''  had  dropped  her  message,  and 
the  shells  brought  the  answer  plain  to  the  cut-off 
party.  They  knew  that  they  were  located,  that 
the  guns  would  help  out  their  defence,  that  rescue 
would  come  to  them  as  speedily  as  might  be. 

The  actual  rescue  came  presently  in  the  shape 
of  an  attack  over  the  ground  they  had  covered 
the  day  before.  Before  it  came  they  had  to 
beat  off  one  or  two  more  enemy  rushes,  but  this 
time  the  help  of  those  barraging  shells  stood 
them  in  good  stead,  the  sweeping  shrapnel 
prevented  the  enemy  creeping  in  to  occupy  in 
comparative  safety  the  shell-holes  round  the 
position,  the  steady  fall  of  high  explosives  broke 
down  the  enemy  trenches  and  checked  free 
movement  in  them.  The  Germans  were  badly 
pounded  on  that  portion  of  front,  so  that  when 
the  rescuing  attack  was  made,  it  fought  its  way 
rapidly  forward,  and  the  isolated  party  were 
able  to  do  something  to  help  it  merely  by  hanging 
to  their  position,  by  rear  and  flanking  fire  on 
the  Germans  who  held  the  ground  between 
them  and  the  attacking  line.  The  attack  re- 
sulted in  the  whole  line  being  pushed  forward 
to  the  ridge  behind  the  separated  party,  holding 
it,  and  thrusting  forward  a  little  salient  which 
took  in  the  ground  the  party  had  hung  to  so 
stoutly,  consolidated,  and  held  it  firm. 

The  rescued  men  were  passed  back  to  their 


SILVER  WINGS  13 

lines,  and — most  of  them — to  the  casualty 
clearing  stations.  And  when  the  lieutenant 
brought  the  remnant  of  his  company  back,  to 
the  battalion,  he  told  the  Battalion  Commander 
his  end  of  the  story,  and  heard  in  return  how 
the  message  of  their  whereabouts  had  been 
brought  back  and  how  it  had  directed  the  move- 
ment that  had  got  them  out.  The  lieutenant 
wanted  to  send  a  word  of  thanks  to  ^^  Silver 
Wings"  and  her  pilot,  but  this  the  CO.  told  him 
he  could  not  do.  ^'The  pilot  was  lifted  out  of  his 
machine  and  taken  straight  to  the  C.C.S.,i" 
he  said.  **He  was  wounded  by  rifle-fire  from 
the  ground  when  he  first  dived  to  help  you  beat 
off  that  attack.  No,  not  seriously,  I^m  glad  to 
say,  but  he^d  lost  a  lot  of  blood,  and  he  got 
rather  knocked  about  landing  and  broke  his 
machine  a  bit  I  believe." 

'* Wounded,"  said  the  lieutenant  slowly,  ''and 
at  that  time.  So  he  kept  on  diving  his  machine 
about  and  fighting  after  he  was  wounded;  and 
went  through  that  air  fight  with  his  wound, 
and  shot  the  Hun  down,   and  then  came  on 

back  and  gave  his  message "     ''Dropped  a 

note  straight  into  the  signallers  at  Brigade 
Headquarters,"  said  the  CO. 

The  lieutenant  drew  a  deep  breath.  "We  knew 
we  were  owing  him  a  lot,"  he  said.  "But  it 
seems  we  were  owing  even  more  than  we  thought." 

"And  I'm  beginning  to  think,"  said  the  CO., 
"that  all  of  us  here  on  the  ground  are  owing  more 
than  weVe  known  to  those  fellows  in  the  air." 

^  Casualty  Clearing  Station. 


II 

BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS 

For  ten  minutes  past  the  observer  had  been 
alternately  studying  his  map  and  the  ground 
20,000  feet  below,  and  now  he  leaned  forward 
out  of  his  cockpit,  touched  the  pilot  on  the 
shoulder,  and  made  a  slight  signal  with  his 
hand.  Immediately  the  machine  began  to  swing 
in  a  wide  curve,  while  the  observer  busied  him- 
self with  his  camera  and  exposed  plate  after 
plate. 

He  looked  up  and  out  a  moment  as  there 
came  to  his  ear,  dully  but  unmistakably  above 
the  roar  of  the  engine,  the  hoarse  "tyoo/'^  of 
a  bursting  anti-aircraft  shell.  The  black  smoke 
of|the  burst  showed  a  good  hundred  yards  out 
to  their  left  and  some  hundreds  of  feet  above 
them,  and  the  observer  returned  to  his  photo- 
graphing. 

"TToo/"  came  another  shell,  and  then  in 
quick  succession  another  and  another,  the  last 
one  dead  ahead  and  with  such  correct  elevation 
that,  a  second  later,  the  machine  flashed  through 
the  streaming  black  smoke  of  the  burst.  The 
pilot  looked  back  inquiringly,  and  the  observer 

14 


BRING  HOME  THE  ^BUS  15 

made  a  sign  which  meant  ^'Do  what  you  please," 
and  sat  back  to  wait  until  the  pilot  took  such 
steps  as  he  thought  fit  to  disarrange  the  aim  of 
the  gunners  below. 

The  harsh  rending  cough  of  another  shell 
came  so  close  beneath  the  machine  that  both 
men  felt  her  distinctly  jolt  upward,  twisting 
from  the  wind  shock.  The  pilot  waited  no 
more.  He  jammed  the  controls  hard  over  and 
flung  the  machine  out  in  a  vicious  side-slip, 
caught  her  at  the  end  of  it,  tipped  her  nose 
over  and  plunged  straight  down  with  the  engine 
full  on  for  a  thousand  feet,  banked  sharply, 
pivoting  fairly  on  his  wing-tip,  and  shot  off  at 
right  angles  to  his  former  course  for  a  quarter 
of  a  mile;  then,  climbing  slightly  as  he  went, 
swung  hard  round  again,  dipped  a  little  to  gather 
speed,  hoicked  hard  up,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
was  back  somewhere  about  the  position  at 
which  he  had  first  departed  from  the  course. 

Back  about  the  point  where  they  had  last 
turned  a  string  of  black  smoke-puffs  flashed  out 
rapidly.  The  pilot  shut  his  engine  off  for  an 
instant.  "Fooled  'em  that  time,"  he  yelled 
back,  and  grinned  gleefully  at  his  observer. 
The  observer  peered  out  carefully  and  exposed 
another  plate,  turned  and  passed  another  signal 
to  the  pilot.  Instantly  the  engine  roared  out, 
and  the  machine  tipped  her  bows  down  and 
went  plunging  earthward.  The  observer  watched 
the  needle  of  his  height  indicator  drop  back 
and  back  through  20,000,  19,  18,  17,  16,  hang 
there  an  instant,  leap  up  again  to  16  and  17. 


/ 

16  BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS 

There  it  stayed  quivering  for  ten  seconds,  while 
the  machine  hurtled  forward  at  a  hundred  miles 
an  hour  on  a  level  keel.  There  the  pilot  dropped 
her  nose  a  little  again  and  went  slanting  down 
with  the  engine  full  on,  and  the  needle  of  the 
speed  indicator  climbing  up  and  up  until  the 
speed  touched  140  miles  an  hour  and  the  height 
indicator  dropped  to  a  14,000-foot  level. 

The  Archie  shells  were  spouting  and  splashing 
round  them  in  all  directions,  but  their  erratic 
course  had  sufficiently  upset  the  gunners  to  bring 
the  bursts  well  out  and  clear,  and  the  pilot  made 
the  last  steep  dizzying  plunge  that  brought  him 
to  the  10,000-foot  height  his  observer  had  asked 
for.  But  at  this  height  they  were  well  within 
the  range  of  smaller  Archie  batteries,  and  the 
observer  jerked  the  handle  of  his  camera  to 
and  fro  at  intervals,  with  the  racking  cough  of 
the  shells  sounding  perilously  close,  and  the 
reek  of  their  burst  at  times  swirling  past  as  the 
machine  tore  through  their  smoke.  Three  times 
heavy  splinters  whurred  viciously  past  them, 
and  once  a  sharp  crack  and  rip  left  a  gaping 
black  rent  in  the  cloth  of  the  body  close  astern 
of  the  observer. 

For  a  good  ten  minutes  the  machine  circled 
and  swung  and  darted  to  and  fro,  while  the 
observer  hung  on  and  snapped  his  plates  at 
such  objects  as  he  wanted  on  the  ground  below; 
and  for  all  that  ten  minutes  the  Archies  con- 
tinued to  pitch  a  stream  of  shells  up  round  and 
over  and  under  them. 

Then  the  observer  signalled  "  finished, '^  and 


BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS  17 

the  machine  jerked  round  and  streaked  off  at 
top  speed  in  a  series  of  curves  and  zigzags  that 
carried  her  westward  and  homeward  as  straight 
as  the  pilot  dared  drive  in  avoiding  the  shells 
that  continued  to  follow  them.  The  pilot  kept 
her  nose  down  a  little  as  he  went,  so  as  to 
obtain  the  maximum  speed,  but  when  he  began 
to  run  out  of  range  of  the  Archies  and  leave 
their  smoke  bursts  well  astern,  he  tilted  up  and 
pushed  straight  west  at  top  speed,  but  on  a 
long  climb  that  brought  him  up  a  thousand 
feet  a  mile.  Presently  he  felt  the  signal  cord 
looped  about  his  arm  jerk  and  jerk  again,  and, 
tilting  the  machine^s  nose  slightly  downward, 
he  shut  off  his  engine  and  let  her  glide  and 
twisted  round  to  the  observer. 

''Huns,^'  yelled  the  observer.  "Six  of  'em, 
and  coming  like  stink,''  and  he  pointed  up  and 
astern  to  half  a  dozen  dots  in  the  sky. 

''Would  you  like  a  scrap,  Spotty?"  shouted 
the  pilot.     ''Shall  we  take  'em  on?" 

"Don't  ask  me,"  shouted  Spotty.  "Ask 
the  Hun.  He'll  scrap  if  he  wants  to,  and  you 
and  your  old  'bus  can't  help  it,  Barry." 

"Thought  you  knew  the  old  'Marah'  better," 
retorted  Barry.  "You  watch";  and  he  twisted 
in  his  seat  and  opened  his  engine  out. 

Now  the  "Marah"  was  the  pride  of  her 
Squadron,  and,  most  inordinately,  of  her  pilot. 
Built  line  by  line  to  the  blue-print  of  her  class, 
fraction  by  fraction  of  an  inch  in  curve,  straight, 
and  stream-line,  to  the  design  of  her  sisters  in 
the  Squadron,  differing  no  hair's-breadth  from 


18  BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS 

them  in  shape,  size,  engine,  or  propeller,  she 
yet  by  some  inscrutable  decree  was  the  best  of 
them  all  in  every  quality  that  counts  for  best 
in  a  machine.  There  are  theories  to  account 
for  these  not  uncommon  differences,  the  most 
popular  and  plausible  being  that  the  better 
machine  is  so  merely  because  of  some  extra 
skill  and  minute  care  in  her  and  her  engine's  build- 
ing, last  touches  of  exactness  and  perfection  in 
the  finish  of  their  parts  and  their  assembling. 

The  ''Marah"  could  outclimb  anything  in 
the  Squadron  with  the  most  ridiculous  ease, 
outclimb  them  in  feet  per  minute,  and  in  final 
height;  she  could  outfly  them  on  any  level  from 
100  to  20,000  feet,  could  ^^out-stunt"  them— 
although  here  perhaps  the  pilot  had  as  much  to 
say  as  the  machine — in  any  and  every  stunt  they 
eared  to  challenge  her  on.  Barry,  her  young 
pilot,  literally  loved  her.  He  lost  no  chance  of 
trying  her  out  against  other  types  of  machines, 
and  there  were  few  of  the  fastest  and  best  types 
even  amongst  the  single-seater  scout  machines 
that  could  beat  her  on  a  level  fly,  or  that  she 
could  not  leave  with  her  nose  held  slightly 
down.  No  two-seater  Barry  had  ever  met 
could  come  anywhere  near  the  *'Marah"  in 
stunting,  in  the  ease  and  speed  at  which  he 
could  put  her  through  all  sorts  of  fancy  spins, 
loops,  side-slips,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  bag  of 
air  tricks.  How  much  of  her  superiority  was 
due  to  her  own  qualities  and  how  much  to  her 
pilot  it  is  hard  to  say,  because  certain  it  is  that 
Barry  could  climb  her  nearly  a  thousand  feet 


BRING  HOME  THE  ^BUS  19 

higher,  and  drive  her  several  knots  faster,  than 
any  other  pilot  who  had  flown  her. 

It  is  because  of  all  these  things  that  Barry 
had  preferred  to  make  this  particular  photo- 
graphing trip  a  lone-hand  one.  It  was  a  long- 
distance journey  far  back  behind  the  German 
lines,  to  a  spot  known  to  be  well  protected  by 
long-range  Archies,  and  of  such  importance 
that  it  was  certain  to  order  out  fast  fighting 
machines  to  cut  off  any  flight  taking  back 
reports  or  photographs.  Barry's  arguments  for 
his  single-handed  trip  were  simple,  and,  as  the 
Squadron  Commander  had  to  admit,  sound. 
''One  machine  stands  much  more  chance  of 
sneaking  over  high  up  without  being  spotted 
than  a  whole  flight,"  said  Barry.  ''When 
weVe  there  I  can  chuck  the  'bus  about  any  old 
how  to  dodge  the  Archies,  while  Spotty  snaps 
his  pictures;  and  if  we're  tackled  by  any  E.A./ 
the  old  'Marah'  could  probably  outfly  them 
by  herself.  And  since  you're  so  beastly  positive 
that  this  isn't  a  scrapping  stunt,  I'd  sooner  be 
on  my  own  and  free  to  dodge  and  run  and  use 
clouds  and  so  on  without  having  to  think  of 
keeping  formation.  Don't  you  worry.  We'll 
come  through  all  right." 

The  Squadron  Commander  gave  in.  ''Right 
oh,"  he  said  reluctantly.  "And  do  keep  your 
eyes  skinned  for  Huns  and  run  from  'em  if 
you've  a  chance.  This  information  is  wanted 
badly,  remember,  and  you  mustn't  risk  getting 
scuppered  with  it.    And,  besides  we  can't  afford 

*  E.A.    Enemy  Aircraft. 


20  BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS 

to  lose  the  ^Marah*  out  of  the  Squadron.  You 
don't  count  of  course,  but  the  old  'bus  is  too 
good  to  lose." 

He  hid  a  good  deal  of  anxiety  under  his 
chaffing,  and  Barry,  reading  that  and  the  friend- 
ship that  bred  it,  laughed  and  took  the  same 
light-hearted  tone.  ^^You  won't  lose  her,"  he 
said.  ''If  a  Hun  punctures  me  and  Spotty 
we'll  just  jump  overboard  and  tell  the  old  girl 
to  push  along  home  on  her  own.  She's  jolly 
near  got  sense  enough  to  do  it  too,  I  believe." 

Now  all  this  was  in  Barry's  mind  when  Spotty 
told  him  of  the  pursuing  enemy,  and  so  he  set 
himself  to  take  every  ounce  of  advantage  he 
could.  The  machines  behind  were  travelling 
faster,  because  they  had  sighted  him  from  a 
much  higher  level,  and  had  all  the  additional 
speed  that  a  downward  slant  gave  them,  while 
the  ''Marah,"  still  held  on  a  slightly  upward 
incline,  lost  something  of  her  top  speed  thereby. 

Barry  knew  there  were  Archie  batteries  to  be 
passed  over  on  the  way  back,  and  if  he  meant 
to  keep  a  straight  course  it  was  necessary  that 
he  should  be  as  far  above  them  as  possible. 
He  leaned  out  and  peered  down  at  the  landscape 
wheeling  and  unrolling  under  them,  picked  out 
the  spot  he  was  watching  for — a  village  where 
he  knew  Archie  batteries  were  located — and 
altered  course  slightly  to  give  it  a  wider  berth. 
In  another  minute  the  Archie  shells  began  to 
bark  about  them.  At  the  first  one  that  came 
dangerously  close  the  ''Marah"  hoicked  abruptly 
upward  500  feet,  wheeled  sharp  south  for  half 


BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS  21 

a  mile,  swung  again  and  drove  straight  west. 
Twice  she  had  to  swerve  and  dodge  in  similar 
fashion  before  she  cleared  the  zone  of  the 
Archies'  range,  and  these  swerves  and  their 
faster  downward  passage  allowed  the  enemy 
craft  to  overhaul  her  considerably.  Spotty 
swung  his  machine-gun  round  in  readiness  and 
trained  it  aft  and  up  on  the  hostiles. 

Two  single-seaters  were  half  a  mile  ahead  of 
the  other  four  and  looming  larger  every  minute. 
They  were  within  long  range  now,  and,  presently, 
one  of  them  loosed  off  a  dozen  rounds  or  so  at 
the  "Marah."  Spotty  jerked  a  signal  that  he 
was  going  to  fire,  and  taking  careful  sight  rapped 
off  about  twenty  rounds.  The  range  was  too 
great  yet  for  him,  and  the  Huns  made  no  sign 
of  a  swerve  from  their  direct  path,  so  Spotty 
ceased  firing  and  waited,  glancing  over  his  sights 
at  one  machine  that  had  forged  slightly  ahead 
of  the  other.  Barry  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  and  up  at  the  two  machines.  They 
were  still  a  good  thousand  feet  above  the 
*'Marah,''  but  Barry  was  satisfied  enough  with 
the  way  the  game  was  running,  because  while 
they  had  dropped  from  perhaps  20,000  feet  to 
15,000,  the  ^'Marah'^  had  gained  3,000  to  4,000 
as  she  flew. 

The  advantage  of  height  was  half  the  battle, 
and  Barry  wanted  to  snatch  every  inch  of  it 
he  could  gain.  For  that  reason  he  passed  a 
signal  back  to  Spotty  to  open  fire  again,  and 
Spotty  obediently  began  to  rip  out  a  series 
of  short  bursts.     The  two  men  had  flown  so 


22  BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS     • 

long  together  that  each  knew  the  other's*  dodges 
and  ideas  to  an  extent  precious  beyond  words,  and 
had  a  code  of  brief  signals  in  head-noddings  and 
jerkings  and  hand  motions  that  saved  much  waste 
of  time  and  breath  in  shutting  off  engine  to  shout 
messages  or  yelling  through  the  communicating 
'phone.  Spotty  figured  now  just  the  plan  Barry 
had  in  mind,  a  plan  to  hustle  the  enemy  into 
making  his  attempt  before  he  was  at  the  closest 
effective  range  for  a  diving  attack.  The  plan 
succeeded  too.  His  bullets  must  have  been 
going  somewhere  close,  for  Spotty  saw  the  nearest 
machine  swerve  ever  so  slightly,  as  if  her  pilot 
had  flinched  or  ducked  instinctively.  Then 
Spotty  saw  her  nose  dip  slightly  until  it  was 
pointed  straight  at  the  ^^Marah,''  the  machine- 
gun  firing  through  her  propeller  broke  out  in 
a  long  rapid  burst  of  fire,  and  the  'tracer" 
bullets  ^  came  flashing  and  streaming  past  in  thin 
pencils  of  flame  and  smoke.  What  followed  takes 
a  good  deal  longer  in  the  telling  than  it  did  in  the 
happening.  All  three  machines  were  travelling, 
remember,  at  a  speed  of  anything  round  a 
hundred  knots,  a  speed  that  rose  at  times  as 
they  dipped  and  dived  to  nearer  perhaps  a 
hundred  and  thirty  and  forty.  While  they 
were  flying  on  the  same  course  with  little  differ- 
ence in  speed  each  airman  could  see  the  other 
closely  and  in  detail,  could  watch  each  little 
movement,  look  over  at  leisure  small  items  about 
each  other's  machines.     Mere  groundlings  cannot 

1  Tracer  bullets  emit  smoke  and  flame  to  allow  the  shooter 
to  follow  their  flight. 


BRING  HOME  THE  ^BUS  23 

get  nearer  to  the  sensation  than  to  imagine  or 
remember  sitting  at  the  window  of  a  carriage 
on  the  slow  lumbering  sixty-mile-an-hour  express, 
watching  the  almost  equally  slow  mail  rushing 
over  the  rails  at  sixty-five  miles  on  a  parallel 
line,  and  seeing  the  passengers  at  her  windows 
scanning  deliberately  the  shape  of  your  hat  or 
colour  of  your  hair. 

In  just  such  fashion  Spotty  saw  the  pilot  of 
the  leading  machine  rise  slightly  and  glance 
astern  at  his  companion,  saw  him  settle  himself 
in  his  seat,  saw  him  raise  a  hand  and  motion 
downward.  Instantly  he  jerked  the  cord  fast 
to  Barry^s  shoulder,  signalling  *4ook  out,"  and 
with  swift  clockwork  motions  snatched  the 
almost  empty  drum  of  his  machine-gun,  and 
replaced  it  with  the  full  one  he  held  ready 
clutched  between  his  knees. 

Vaguely  in  the  swift  ensuing  seconds  he  felt 
the  machine  under  him  sway  and  leap  and  reel; 
but  his  whole  mind  was  for  that  time  concen- 
trated on  his  gun  sights,  on  keeping  them  full 
on  the  bulk  of  the  machine  astern  of  him,  in 
pressing  the  trigger  at  the  exact  critical  second. 
He  saw  the  round  bow  of  his  nearest  pursuer 
lift  and  for  one  long  breath  saw  the  narrow 
tapering  length  of  her  underbody  behind  it. 
That  was  a  chance,  and  he  filled  it  full  and 
brimming  with  a  fifty-round  burst  of  which  he 
saw  the  bullets  flash  and  disappear  in  the 
fuselage  above  him.  Then  in  a  flash  the  under- 
body disappeared,  and  the  rounded  bow  of  the 
hostile  came  plunging  down  on  him,  growing 


24  BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS 

and  widening  as  it  came  full  power  and  speed 
of  engine  and  gravity  pull.  He  was  dimly 
conscious  of  her  firing  as  she  came,  and  he 
kept  his  own  gun  going,  pumping  bullets  in  a 
constant  stream,  his  eye  glued  to  the  sights,  his 
finger  clenched  about  the  trigger.  Somehow 
he  knew — just  knew,  without  reasoning  or 
thinking  it  out — that  his  bullets  were  going  to 
their  mark,  and  it  gave  him  no  slightest  touch 
of  astonishment  when  he  saw  his  enemy  stagger, 
leap  upward,  lurch  and  roll  until  she  stood 
straight  up  on  her  wing-tip,  and  so,  banking 
and  deflecting  from  the  ^'Marah's"  course,  flash 
in  a  split  fraction  of  a  second  out  of  the  fight. 

He  had  no  more  than  a  glimpse  of  a  gust  of 
fire  and  gush  of  black  smoke  from  somewhere 
about  her  before  she  vanished  from  his  sight, 
and  he  was  training  his  sights  on  a  second  shape 
that  came  swooping  and  plunging  down  upon 
him.  This  second  enemy  made  better  play 
with  her  gun.  With  deadly  slowness  and  per- 
sistence, as  it  seemed,  she  closed,  yard  by  yard. 
Spotty  trained  his  gun  full  in  the  centre  of  the 
quivering  light  rays  that  marked  the  circle  of 
her  whirling  propeller,  and  poured  burst  after 
burst  straight  at  the  jerking  flashes  of  the 
machine-gun  that  blazed  through  her  propeller. 
He  felt  an  agonising  jar  on  his  ankle  .  .  .  but 
the  drum  of  his  machine-gun  snapped  out  its 
last  cartridge,  and  Spotty  smoothly  and  method- 
ically whipped  off  the  empty  drum,  stooped 
and  lifted  a  full  one,  fitted  it  in  place,  and 
looking  over  his  sights  rapped  his  gun  into  action 


'  BRING  HOME  THE  *BUS  25 

again;  while  all  the  time  the  bullets  of  his 
adversary  hailed  and  ripped  and  tore  about 
and  upon  the  ^'Marah/'  riddling  the  rudder, 
slashing  along  the  stern,  cracking  in  the  whip- 
like reports  of  explosive  bullets  about  the 
observer's  cockpit,  lifting  forward  and  rap-rap- 
rapping  about  the  bows  and  the  pilot's  stooped 
head.  The  ^'Marah"  leaped  out  suddenly  and 
at  full  stride  in  a  hundred-foot  sideslip,  checked, 
and  hurtled  upward;  and  in  that  breath  of 
time  the  pursuer  flicked  past  and  down  and 
out  of  the  vision  of  Spotty's  sights. 

It  was  all  over  so  quickly  that  Spotty,  looking 
overside,  could  still  see  the  first  enemy  spinning 
down  jerkily  with  black  smoke  whirling  up 
from  her  fuselage,  spinning  helplessly  down,  as 
he  knew,  to  hit  the  earth  15,000  feet  below. 
Spotty  felt  suddenly  and  surprisingly  sick  and 
faint.  His  particular  story  blurs  somewhat 
from  here  on,  because  he  himself  was  never 
able  to  supply  it  in  detail.  He  was  able  to 
answer  Barry — Barry  turning  to  shout  his 
question  while  the  *^Marah"  tore  along  at  her 
full  110  knots — that  he'd  been  hit  somewhere 
about  the  foot  or  leg,  and  didn't  feel  much, 
except  sick.  This  Barry  was  able  to  gather 
with  some  difficulty,  after  juggling  with  the 
wheel  beside  him  that  shifted  angles  of  incidence, 
and  more  or  less  stabilised  the  ^^Marah's" 
flight,  abandoning  his  controlling  '' joy-stick," 
clambering  up  on  his  seat,  and  hanging  back 
and  over  to  bring  his  head  into  the  observer's 
cockpit  and  his  ear  within  reach  of  Spotty's  feeble 


26  BRING  HOME  THE    BUS 

attempts  at  a  shout.  He  himself  was  rather  unfit 
for  these  acrobatics,  owing  to  certain  unpleasant 
and  punishing  wounds  just  received.  While  he 
attempted  to  carry  on  his  laboured  inquiries,  the 
''Marah,''  her  engine  throttled  down  and  her 
controls  left  to  look  after  themselves,  swooped 
gently  and  leisurely,  slid  downwards  on  a  gliding 
slant  for  a  thousand  feet,  pancaked  into  an  air- 
pocket,  and  fell  off  into  a  spinning  dive. 

While  she  plunged  earthward  at  a  rate  of  some 
hundred  feet  per  second  Barry  finished  his  in- 
quiries, dragged  or  pushed  back  into  his  seat — it 
was  really  down  into  his  seat,  since  the  ^^Marah" 
at  the  moment  was  standing  on  her  head  and 
his  seat  was  between  the  observer's  and  the 
bows,  but  the  wind  pressure  at  that  speed  made 
it  hard  work  to  slide  down — took  hold  of  his 
controls,  waited  the  exact  and  correct  moment, 
flattened  the  ^^Marah"  out  of  her  spin,  opened 
the  throttle  and  went  booming  off  again  to 
westward  a  bare  5,000  feet  above  ground  level. 

He  had,  it  is  true,  a  moment's  parley  and  a 
swift  summing  up  of  the  situation  before  he 
turned  the  "Marah's"  bows  definitely  for 
home.  And  the  situation  was  ugly  enough  to 
be  worth  considering.  Spotty  (Barry  thought 
of  him  first)  was  in  a  bad  way — leg  smashed  to 
flinders — explosive  evidently — bleeding  like  a 
stuck  pig  (wonder  would  the  plates  be  spoiled, 
or  was  the  camera  built  water-tight,  or  blood- 
tight?) — very  doubtful  if  he'd  last  out  the 
journey  home.  Then  Barry  himself  had  wounds 
— the  calf  of  his  left  leg  blown  to  shreds,  and 


BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS  27 

the  toes  of  his  left  foot  gone,  and,  most  up- 
settingly  painful  of  all,  a  gaping  hole  where  his 
left  eye  should  be,  a  blood-streaming  agony 
that  set  his  senses  reeling  and  wavering  and 
clearing  slowly  and  painfully.  This  last  wound, 
as  it  proved,  was  the  result  of  a  ricochetting 
bullet  which,  flicking  forward  as  Barry  had 
turned  his  head,  cut  his  left  eye  clean  from  its 
socket. 

The  summing  up  was  very  clear  and  simple. 
They  were  a  good  thirty  miles  from  the 
lines;  Spotty  might  easily  bleed  to  death  in 
less  than  that;  he,  Barry,  might  do  the  same, 
or  might  faint  from  pain  and  exhaustion.  In 
that  case  done-finish  himself,  and  Spotty,  and 
the  "Marah,"  in  a  drop  of  5,000  feet  and  a 
full  hundred-mile-an-hour  crash  below.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  had  only  to  move  his  hand,  push 
the  joy-stick  out  and  sweep  the  ^^Marah" 
down,  flatten  her  out  and  pick  a  decent  field, 
land,  and  he  and  Spotty  would  be  in  the  doctor's 
hands  in  a  matter  of  minutes,  both  of  them  safe 
and  certain  of  their  lives  at  least.  In  seconds 
they  could  be  "on  the  floor"  and  in  safety — and 
in  German  hands  .  .  .  the   two  of  them  and 

.  .  .  and  .  .  .  the^Marah."  It  was  probably 
the  thought  of  the  ''Marah"  that  turned  the 
scale,  if  ever  the  scale  really  hung  in  doubt. 
''We  can't  afford  .  .  ."—what  was  it  the 
Squadron  Commander  had  said? — *' can't  afford 
to  lose  the  old  'Marah'  from  the  Squadron." 
No  (Barry's  vision  cleared  mentally  and  physic- 
ally at  the  thought), — no,  and,  by  the  Lord,  the 


28  BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS 

Squadron  wasn't  going  to  lose  the  '^Marah," 
not  if  it  was  in  him  to  bring  the  old  'bus  home. 

He  knew  it  was  going  to  be  a  close  thing, 
for  himself  and  for  the  ^^Marah";  and  care- 
fully he  set  himself  to  take  the  last  and  least 
ounce  of  the  chances  in  favour  of  his  getting 
the  "Marah"  across  the  line.  It  would  be 
safer  to  climb  high  and  cross  the  fire  of  the 
Archies  that  waited  him  on  the  line;  safer  so 
far  as  dodging  the  shells  went,  but  cutting  down 
the  limit  set  to  his  strength  and  endurance  by 
the  passing  minutes.  On  the  level,  or  with  her 
nose  a  little  down,  the  '^Marah"  would  make 
the  most  of  the  time  left  her,  or  rather  left  him. 
His  senses  blurred  and  swam  again;  he  felt 
himself  lurching  forward  in  his  seat,  knew  that 
this  was  pushing  the  joy-stick  forward  and  the 
*'Marah's"  nose  to  earth,  shoved  himself  back 
in  his  seat  and  clutched  the  stick  desperately 
to  him  .  .  .  and  woke  slowly  a  minute  after 
to  find  the  "Marah's"  bows  pointed  almost 
straight  up,  her  engine  struggling  to  lift  her,  his 
machine  on  the  very  verge  of  stalling  and  falling 
back  into  the  gulf.  He  flung  her  nose  down 
and  forward  hastily,  and  the  '^Marah"  ducked 
gracefully  over  like  a  hunter  taking  an  easy 
fence,  steadied  and  lunged  forward  in  arrow- 
straight  flight. 

After  this  Barry  concentrated  on  the  faces 
of  the  clock,  the  height  and  the  speed  indi- 
cators. Once  or  twice  he  tried  to  look  over- 
side to  locate  his  position,  but  the  tearing 
hurricane    wind    of    the    ''Marah's"    passage 


BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS  29 

so  savaged  his  torn  face  and  eye  that  he  was 
forced  back  into  the  cover  of  his  windscreen. 
Five  minutes  went.  Over,  well  over  a  hundred 
the  speed  indicator  said  the  ^'Marah^'  was 
doing.  Nearly  5,000  up  the  height  indicator 
said  (must  have  climbed  a  lump  in  that  minute's 
haziness,  concluded  Barry),  and,  reckoning  to 
cross  the  line  somewhere  inside  the  500  up — 
which  after  all  would  risk  machine-gun  and 
rifle  fire,  but  spare  them  the  Archies — would 
allow  him  to  slant  the  ^^Marah"  down  a  trifle 
and  get  a  little  more  speed  out  of  her.  He  tilted 
her  carefully  and  watched  the  speed  indicator 
climb  slowly  and  hang  steady. 

And  so  another  five  minutes  went.  Two 
thousand  up  said  the  indicator;  and  ^'woof, 
woof,  woof^^  grunted  a  string  of  Archie  shells. 
'^Getting  near  the  line,"  said  Barry,  and  pushed 
the  joy-stick  steadily  forward.  The  ^^Marah" 
hurtled  downward  on  a  forty-five  degree  slant, 
her  engine  full  out,  the  wind  screaming  and  shriek- 
ing about  her.  Fifteen  hundred,  a  thousand, 
five  hundred  pointed  the  needle  of  the  height 
indicator,  and  slowly  and  carefully  Barry  pulled 
the  ^^Marah's"  head  up  and  held  her  racing  at 
her  top  speed  on  the  level. 

Fifteen  minutes  gone.  They  must  be  near 
the  lines  now.  He  could  catch,  faint  and  far 
off  through  the  booming  roar  of  his  engine, 
the  rattle  of  rifle  fire,  and  a  faint  surprise  took 
him  at  the  sound  of  two  strange  raps,  and 
the  sight  of  two  neat  little  round  holes  in  the 
instrument  board  and  map  in  front  of  him.     He 


30  BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS 

looked  out,  carefully  holding  the  joy-stick  steady 
in  one  hand  and  covering  his  torn  eye  with  the 
other,  and  saw  the  wriggling  white  lines  of 
trenches  flashing  past  close  below.  Then  from 
the  cockpit  behind  him  broke  out  a  steady 
clatter  and  jar  of  the  observer's  machine-gun. 
Barry  looked  round  to  see  Spotty,  chalk-faced 
and  tight-lipped,  leaning  over  the  side  with 
arms  thrust  out  and  pointing  his  gun  straight 
to  earth  with  a  stream  of  flashes  pouring  from 
the  muzzle.  '^Good  man,"  murmured  Barry, 
''oh,  good  man,''  and  made  the  ''Marah" 
wriggle  in  her  flight  as  a  signal. 

Spotty  looked  round,  loosened  his  lips  in  a 
ghastly  grin,  and  waved  an  arm  signaUing  to 
turn  at  right  angles.  ''Nothin'  doin',  my  son," 
said  Barry  grinning  back.  ''It's  'Home,  John' 
for  us  this  time.  But  fancy  the  priceless  old 
fellow  wanting  to  go  touring  their  front  line 
spraying  lead  on  'em.     Good  lad,  Spotty." 

A  minute  later  he  felt  his  senses  reel,  and  his 
sight  blacken  again,  but  he  gripped  his  teeth  on 
his  lip  and  steered  for  the  clump  of  wood  that 
hid  his  own  Squadron's  landing  ground. 

He  made  his  landing  there  too;  made  it  a 
trifle  badly,  because  when  he  came  to  put 
rudder  on  he  found  that  his  left  leg  refused  its 
proper  work.  And  so  he  crashed  at  the  last, 
crashed  very  mildly  it  is  true,  but  enough  to 
skew  the  wheels  and  twist  the  frame  of  the 
under-carriage  a  little. 

And  as  Spotty's  first  words  when  he  was 
lifted   from   his   cockpit   were   of   the   crash — 


BRING  HOME  THE  'BUS  31 

'*  Barry,  you  blighter,  if  youVe  crashed  those 
plates  of  mine  I'll  never  forgive  you.  .  .  . 
You'll  find  all  the  plates  exposed,  Major, 
and  notes  of  the  bearing  and  observations  in 
my  pocket-book" — so  also  were  Barry's  last 
of  the  same  thing.  He  didn't  speak  till  near 
the  end.  Then  he  opened  his  one  eye  to  the 
Squadron  Commander  waiting  at  his  bedside 
and  made  an  apology  .  .  .  C^An  apology  .  .  . 
Good  Lord!  ..."  as  the  Major  said  after). 
'^Did  I  crash  her  badly.  Major?"  And  when 
the  Major  assured  him  No,  nothing  that  wouldn't 
repair  in  a  day,  and  that  the  ^^Marah"  would 
be  ready  for  him  when  he  came  back  to  them,  he 
shook  his  head  faintly.  *'But  it  doesn't  matter," 
he  said.  ''Anyhow,  I  got  her  home.  .  .  .  And 
if  I'm  'going  West,'  the  old  'Marah'  will  go 
East  again  .  .  .  and  get  some  more  Huns  for 
you."  He  ceased,  and  was  silent  a  minute. 
Then  "I'm  sorry  I  crashed  her,  Major  .  .  .  but 
y'see,  .  .  .  my  leg  .  .  .  was  a  bit  numb." 
He  closed  his  eye;  and  died. 


A  pilot  lost  doesn't  very  much  count. 

(But  don't  tell  his  girl  or  his  mater  this!) 
There's  always  another  to  take  his  mount, 

And  push  the  old  'bus  where  the  Archies  miss. 
But  a  'bus  that's  lost  you  can't  renew, 
For  where  one  works  there's  the  want  of  two 
And  all  they  can  make  are  still  too  few, 

So  we  must  bring  home  the  'bus. 


Ill 

A  TENDER  SUBJECT 

The  telling  of  this  tale  in  the  Squadron  Mess 
came  about  through  (1)  a  mishap,  (2)  a  joke, 
and  (3)  an  argument.  The  mishap  was  to 
a  fighting  two-seater,  which  landed  on  the 
Squadron's  Mrome  with  a  dud  engine.  The 
pilot  and  observer  made  their  way  to  the  Squad- 
ron office  and,  after  a  brief  'phone  talk  to  their 
own  CO.,  borrowed  a  tender  and  pushed 
off  for  their  own  'drome.  The  leader  of  ^'A" 
Flight  walked  down  to  the  tender,  chatting 
to  them,  and  four  of  the  Squadron's  pilots 
took  advantage  of  the  chance  of  a  lift  in  to 
a  town  the  tender  had  to  pass  on  the  journey. 
All  of  them  heard  and  all  were  a  little  sur- 
prised at  *^A"  Commander's  parting  word  to 
the  two  visitors.  "  I've  told  the  driver  to  go  slow 
and  careful,"  he  said.  '^You  fellows  just  watch 
he  does  it,  will  you?" 

The  joke  began  to  dawn  on  the  four  just 
after  the  tender  had  carefully  clearer'  the  first 
bend  of  the  road  from  the  'drome  and  fche  driver 
began  to  open  her  up  and  let  her  rip.  The 
joke  grew  with  the  journey,  and  the  four  on 
their  return  to  the   Squadron  that  afternoon 

32 


A  TENDER  SUBJECT  33 

burst  into  the  full  ante-room  and,  announcing 
it  ''Such  a  joke,  oh,  such  a  jokeT'  went  on  to 
tell  it  in  competing  quartette  to  a  thoroughly 
appreciative  audience.  It  appeared  that  one 
passenger — ''the  pale-faced  nervy-looking  little 
'un  with  pink  eye-rims" — had  showed  distinct 
uneasiness  when  the  tender  rushed  a  dip-dlnd- 
rise  at  top  speed,  and  his  observer — "a  reg'lar 
Pickwick  Fat  Boy,  quakin'  like  a  jelly'* — com- 
plained openly  and  bitterly  when  the  tender 
took  a  comer  on  the  two  outside  wheels  and 
missed  a  country  cart  with  six  inches  and  a 
following  gust  of  French  oaths  to  spare. 

When,  by  the  grace  o'  God,  and  by  a  bare 
hand's-breadth,  they  shaved  past  a  lumbering 
M.T.  lorry,  "Pink  Eye'*  and  "Fat  Boy"  clung 
dumb  to  each  other  and  plainly  devoted  them- 
selves to  silent  prayer.  The  dumbness  deserted 
them  and  they  made  up  all  arrears  of  speech, 
and  to  spare,  when  the  tender  took  four  heaps 
of  road-metal  by  the  wayside  in  a  series  of 
switch-backing  hand-springs.  '"Course  we 
twigged  your  joke  by  then,"  said  the  four  to 
"A"  leader.  "I  suppose  you  delivered  the 
driver  his  go-slow  order  with  a  large-sized  wink 
and  he  savvied  what  you  meant."  It  appeared 
that  Pink  Eye  had  asked  the  four  to  make 
the  driver  slow  down,  or  to  kill  him  or  some- 
thing. They  pretended  innocence  and  said  he 
was  a  most  careful  man,  and  so  on.  Fat 
Boy  nearly  wept  when  they  met  a  Staff  car 
travelling  fast  and,  never  slacking  an  ounce, 
whooped  past  with  a  roar;   and  after  a  hairpin 


34  A  TENDER  SUBJECT 

bend,  which  the  tender  took  like  a  fancy  skater 
doing  the  figure-of-eight,  Pink  Eye  completely 
broke  up  and  swore  that  he  was  going  to  get 
off  and  walk.  ^'He^d  have  done  it  too," 
said  the  four  delightedly,  '4f  we  hadn't  eased 
her  up.  But  you  never  saw  such  a  state  of 
funk  as  those  two  were  in.  Kept  moppin' 
their  brows,  and  apologisin'  for  their  nerves, ' 
and  fidgetin'  and  shiverin'  like  wet  kittens  every, 
time  we  took  a  corner  or  met  a  cart.  It  was 
too  funny — really  funny."  \ 

This  led  to  the  argument — whether  men  with 
nerves  of  that  sort  could  be  any  good  in  air 
work.  ''I  know  I'd  hate  to  be  a  pilot  with 
an  observer  of  that  kind  watching  my  tail, 
almost  as  much  as  I'd  hate  to  be  an  observer 
with  Pink  Eye  for  a  pilot,"  said  one,  and  most 
there  agreed.  A  few  argued  that  it  was  possible 
for  men  to  be  brave  enough  in  one  kind  of  show 
and  the  very  opposite  in  another — that  one 
fellow  could  do  the  V.C.  act  seven  days  a  week 
under  fire  and  take  every  sort  of  risk  in  action 
without  turning  a  hair,  and  yet  go  goosey- 
fleshed  on  a  Channel  crossing  in  a  choppy  sea, 
while  another  man  might  enjoy  sailing  a  boat 
single-handed  in  a  boiling  white  sea,  and  yet 
be  genuinely  nervous  about  dodging  across  the 
full  traffic-tide  of  a  London  thoroughfare.  Most 
of  those  present  declined  to  believe  these  theories, 
maintaining  stoutly  that  a  good  plucked  'un 
was  always  such,  and  that  an  obvious  funk 
couldn't  be  anything  else — except  in  novelettes 
and  melodrama.    Then  came  the  story. 


A  TENDER  SUBJECT  33 

"Did  y'ever  hear  of  'Charger*  Wicks?'*  said 
the  Captain  of  ^^A."  ''No?  Well,  you're 
rather  recently  out,  so  you  mightn't,  but — well, 
he's  fairly  well  known  out  here.  He's  rather  a 
case  in  point " 

Being  told  by  an  expert  to  an  audience  of 
experts,  his  tale  was  put  more  briefly,  technically, 
and  air-slangily  than  I  may  hope  to  do,  but 
here  is  the  sense  of  it. 

"Charger"  Wicks  was  a  pilot  in  a  well-known 
fighting  squadron,  and  was  so  called  from 
a  favourite  tactic  of  his  in  air  fighting  and 
his  insistent  advice  to  the  rest  of  the  Flight 
he  came  to  command  to  follow  his  plan  of 
attack.  "Always  charge  straight  at  your  Hun 
if  you  get  a  chance,"  he  would  say.  "Drive 
straight  and  hard  nose-on  at  him,  keeping  your 
gun  going  hot.  If  you  keep  straight,  he'll 
flinch — every  time;  and  as  he  turns  up,  down, 
or  out,  you  get  a  full-length  target  underneath, 
topside,  or  broadside.  If  you  keep  on  and 
shoot  straight,  you're  bound  to  get  a  hatful  of 
bullets  into  him  somewhere." 

The  plan  certainly  seemed  to  work,  and 
Charger  notched  up  a  good  tally  of  crashed 
Huns,  but  others  in  the  Squadron  warned  him 
he'd  try  it  once  too  often.  "Charge  straight 
at  him,  and  he'll  dodge,"  said  Charger. 
"Wait,"  said  the  others.  "Some  day  you'll 
meet  a  Hun  who  works  on  the  same  rule;  then 
where'U  you  be?"  "Yes,"  said  Billy  Bones, 
Charger's  observer,  "and  where'U  I  be?" 
But  although  he  pretended  to  grumble,  Billy 


36  A  TENDER  SUBJECT 

Bones  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  quite  in  agree- 
ment on  the  nose-on  charging  stunt  and  be- 
lieved in  it  as  firmly  as  Charger  himself.  It 
took  nerve,  he  admitted,  but  if  you  had  that 
— and  Charger  certainly  had — it  worked  all 
right.  As  it  happened,  the  nerves  of  both  were 
to  be  ''put  through  it"  rather  severely. 

They  were  up  with  the  Flight  one  day. 
Charger  with  Billy  Bones  leading  in  their 
pet  'bus  Y221.  They  ran  into  a  scrap  with  odds 
of  about  two  to  one  against  them,  and  in  the 
course  of  it  Charger  got  a  chance  to  put  his 
old  tactic  to  the  proof.  The  moment  he  swung 
Y221  and  headed  her  straight  at  a  Hun  scout, 
Billy  knew  what  was  coming,  and  heaved 
his  gun  round  ready  for  any  shot  that  offered 
as  the  Hun  flinched  past.  But  this  time  it 
looked  as  if  the  Squadron's  old  warning  was 
going  to  be  fulfilled  and  that  Charger  had 
met  the  Hun  with  the  same  rule  as  himself. 
Charger's  gun  began  to  rattle  at  about  one 
hundred  yards'  range,  and  the  Hun  opened 
at  the  same  moment.  Billy,  crouching  with 
his  gun  at  the  ready  and  his  eyes  glued  on  a 
scarlet  boss  in  the  centre  of  the  Hun's  propeller, 
saw  and  heard  the  bullets  stream  smoking  and 
cracking  past  and  on  their  machine.  It  does 
not  take  long  for  two  machines  travelling  about 
a  hundred  miles  per  hour  to  cover  a  hundred 
yards,  but  to  Billy,  staring  tense  at  that  grow- 
ing scarlet  blot,  each  split  fraction  of  a  second 
was  an  age,  and  as  the  shape  of  the  Hun  grew 
but    showed    no    sign    of    a    changing    outline, 


A  TENDER  SUBJECT  37 

Billyhs  thoughts  raced.  Charger,  he  knew, 
wouldn^t  budge  an  inch  from  his  line;  if  the 
Hun  also  held  straight  ...  he  still  held  straight 
.  .  .  the  slightest  deviation  up  or  down  would 
show  instantly  in  the  wings,  seen  edgeways  in 
thin  lines,  thickening  and  widening.  The  bullets 
were  coming  deadly  close  .  .  .  and  the  red 
boss  grew  and  grew.  If  the  Hun  didn't  give 
now — this  instant — it  would  be  too  late  .  .  . 
they  must  collide.  The  approaching  wing- 
edges  still  showed  their  thin  straight  line,  and 
Billy,  with  a  mental  ''Too  late  now!"  gasped 
and  gripped  his  gun  and  waited  the  crash. 

Then,  at  the  last  possible  instant,  the  Hun's 
nerve  gave — or,  rather,  it  gave  just  an  instant 
too  late.  Billy  had  a  momentary  vision  of  the 
thin  wing-edges  flashing  wide,  of  the  black 
crosses  on  the  under  side,  of  a  long  narrow 
strip  of  underbody  and  tail  suddenly  appearing 
below  the  line  of  the  planes;  and  then,  before 
he  could  move  or  think,  he  felt  the  Y221  jar 
violently,  heard  horrible  sounds  of  splintering, 
cracking,  tearing,  had  a  terrifying  vision  of  a 
great  green  mass  with  splashed  ugly  yellow 
spots  rearing  up  over  the  top  plane  before  his 
startled  eyes,  plunging  past  over  his  ducking 
head  with  splintering  wreckage  and  flapping 
streamers  of  fabric  whizzing  and  rushing  about 
his  ears.  Y221 — whirling,  jolting,  twisting  all 
ways  and  every  way  at  once  apparently — fell 
away  in  a  series  of  sickening  jerks  that  threatened 
to  wrench  her  joint  from  joint.  Billy's  thoughts 
raced  down  ahead  of  them  to  where  they  would 


38  A  TENDER  SUBJECT 

hit  the  ground  15,000  feet  below  .  .  .  how  long 
would  it  take  .  .  .  would  they  hit  nose-first 
or  how  .  .  .  was  there  anything  he  could  do? 
— and  before  his  mind  shaped  the  question  he 
had  answered  it — No,  nothing !  Dully  he  noticed 
that  their  engine  had  stopped,  that  Charger 
apparently  was  busy  at  the  controls;  then — 
with  a  gleam  of  wondering  hope,  dismissed  at 
first,  but  returning  and  growing — that  the  lurch- 
ing and  rolling  was  steadying,  that  they  were 
coming  back  on  an  even  keel,  were  .  .  .  yes, 
actually,  were  gliding  smoothly  down. 

Charger  twisted  and  looked  down  over- 
side, then  back  at  Billy  and  yelled,  ''D'ye  see 
him?''  Billy  looked  over,  and  next  instant 
saw  a  vanishing  shape  with  one  wing  folded  back, 
saw  another  wing  that  had  torn  clear  floating 
and  ''leafing"  away  on  its  own.  The  shape 
plunged  plummet-wise  until  it  was  lost  in  the 
haze  below.  Billy  turned  inboard.  "Broken 
in  air,"  he  shouted,  and  Charger  nodded  and 
turned  again  to  his  controls.  Billy  saw  that 
their  propeller  was  gone,  only  one  jagged  splinter 
of  a  blade  remaining. 

They  made  a  long  glide  back  and  a  good 
landing  well  behind  the  lines  on  a  grass  field. 
"What  happened?"  said  Billy  the  moment 
they  had  come  to  rest.  "He  flinched,  of  course," 
said  Charger.  "Ran  it  a  bit  fine,  and  our 
prop  caught  his  tail  and  tore  it  up  some.  I 
dunno  that  we're  much  hurt,  except  for  the 
prop  and  that  broken  strut." 

And,  amazingly  enough,  they  were  not.    The 


A  TENDER  SUBJECT  39 

leading  edge  of  a  top  plane  was  broken  and 
cracked  along  its  length,  one  strut  was  snapped, 
the  propeller  gone,  a  few  jagged  holes  from  bullets 
and  Hun  splinters  ripped  in  their  fabric.  "God 
bless  the  people  who  built  her!"  said  Charger 
piously.  "Good  stuff  and  good  work  in  that 
old  'bus,  Billy.  That's  all  that  brought  us 
through." 

Billy  mopped  his  brow.  "Hope  we  don't 
meet  any  more  of  that  breed  of  Hun,"  he  said. 
"I  find  I  don't  like  collisions — not  one  little 
bit." 

"He  flinched  at  the  finish,  though,"  said 
Charger  simply.     "They  all  do." 

When  they  got  Y221  back  to  the  'drome  and 
overhauled  her  they  found  her  wrenched  a  bit, 
but  in  a  couple  of  days  she  was  tautened  up 
into  trim  and  in  the  air  again. 

And  the  very  next  morning,  as  if  this  weren't 
enough.  Charger  and  Billy  had  another 
nerve-testing.  They  were  up  about  12,000  and 
well  over  Hunland  when  they  ran  into  a  patch 
of  Archies,  and  Charger  turned  and  led  the 
formation  straight  towards  a  bank  of  white 
cloud  that  loomed  up,  solid  looking  as  a  huge 
bolster,  before  them.  The  sun  was  dead  be- 
hind them,  so  Billy  at  first  sat  looking  over  the 
tail  on  the  watch  for  any  Huns  who  might  try 
to  attack  "out  of  the  sun"  and  its  blinding 
glare.  But  as  it  was  dead  astern  over  the  tail 
Billy  could  see  clearly  above  and  behind  him, 
so  that  there  was  no  chance  of  a  Hun  diving 
unseen  from  a  height,  and  they  were  moving 


40  A  TENDER  SUBJECT 

too  fast  to  be  overtaken  on  the  level  "out  of 
the  sun/^  Billy  turned  round  and  watched  the 
cloud  they  were  driving  at.  The  sun  was  full 
on  it,  and  it  rose  white  and  glistening  like  a 

chalk  cliff — no,   more  like  a — like  a Billy 

was  idly  searching  his  mind  for  a  fitting  simile, 
when  his  thoughts  broke  and  he  yelled  fiercely 
and  instinctively  in  warning  to  Charger. 
But  Charger  had  seen  too,  as  Billy  knew  from 
his  quick  movement  and  sudden  alert  sit- 
up.  The  cloud  was  anything  round  a  hundred 
yards  from  them,  and  they  could  just  see  the 
slow  curling  twisting  movement  of  its  face. 
And — what  had  suddenly  startled  them — they 
could  see  another  machine,  still  buried  back 
in  the  cloud,  and  looming  large  and  distorted 
by  the  mist,  but  plainly  flying  out  of  it  and 
straight  at  them. 

What  followed  was  over  and  done  in  the  space 
of  seconds,  although  it  may  seem  long  in  the 
telling,  as  it  certainly  was  age-long  in  the  sus- 
pense of  the  happening  and  waiting  for  the 
worst  of  it.  Billy  perhaps,  powerless  to  act, 
able  only  to  sit  tense  and  staring,  felt  the  strain 
the  worst,  although  it  must  have  been  bad 
enough  for  Charger,  knowing  that  their  slen- 
der hope  of  escape  hung  on  his  quick  think- 
ing and  action.  This  was  no  clear  case  of 
following  his  simple  plan  of  charging  and  waiting 
for  the  Hun  to  flinch.  The  whole  success  of 
the  plan  depended  on  the  Hun  seeing  and 
knowing  the  charge  was  coming — on  his  nerve 
failing  to  meet^it.     Charger  didn't  even  know 


A  TENDER  SUBJECT  41 

this  was  a  Hun.  He  might  be  one  of  ours. 
He  might  have  seen  them,  and  at  that  very 
second  be  swerving  to  miss  them.  He  might 
be  blinded  in  the  cloud  and  know  nothing  of 
them  driving  full-on  into  him.  All  this 
went  through  Charger^s  mind  in  a  flash,  and 
almost  in  that  same  flash  he  had  decided  on 
his  action  and  taken  it.  He  thrust  the  nose 
of  Y221  steeply  down.  Even  in  the  fraction 
of  time  it  took  for  him  to  decide  ^nd  his  hand 
to  move  the  control  lever  he  could  see  the 
difference  in  the  misty  shape  before  him,  could 
judge  by  the  darkening,  hardening  and  solidi- 
fying outHne  the  speed  of  their  approach.  And 
then,  exactly  as  his  bows  plunged  down,  he  saw 
and  knew  that  what  he  feared  had  happened — 
the  other  pilot  had  seen  him,  had  thought  and 
acted  exactly  as  he  had.  Charger  saw  the 
thin  line  of  the  edge-on  wings  broaden,  the 
shadowy  shape  of  the  tail  appear  above  them, 
just  as  he  had  seen  it  so  often  when  the  Hun 
he  charged  had  flinched  and  ducked.  But  then 
the  flinching  had  meant  safety  to  him  driving 
straight  ahead — now  it  meant  disaster,  dipping 
as  he  was  fairly  to  meet  the  other. 

Again  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  he  hesitated 
— should  he  push  on  down,  or  turn  up?  Which 
would  the  other  do?  And  again  before  the 
thought  was  well  framed  it  was  decided  and  acted 
on.  He  pulled  the  stick  hard  in,  zoomed  up,  and 
held  his  breath,  waiting.  The  shape  was  clearer 
and  harder,  must  be  almost  out  of  the  cloud — 
doubtful  even  now  if  Y221  had  time  and  room 


42  A  TENDER  SUBJECT 

to  rise  clear — all  right  if  the  other  held  on  down, 
but 

The  nose  of  his  machine  swooped  up,  and 
as  it  did,  and  before  it  shut  out  his  view  ahead, 
Charger,  with  a  cold  sinking  inside  him, 
saw  the  outline  ahead  flash  through  changing 
shapes  again,  the  wings  narrow  and  close  to 
edge-on  view,  open  and  widen  again  with  the 
tail  dropping  below.  Again  the  other  man's 
thought  and  action  had  exactly  followed  his 
own.  No  time  to  do  more;  by  the  solid  appear- 
ance he  knew  the  other  machine  must  be  just 
on  the  edge  of  the  cloud,  and  they  were  almost 
into  it,  its  face  already  stirring  and  twisting  to 
the  propeller  rush.  Charger's  one  thought  at 
the  moment  was  to  see  his  opponent's  nose 
thrust  out — to  know  was  it  a  Hun  or  one  of 
ours. 

Billy  Bones,  sitting  tight  with  fingers  locked 
on  the  cockpit  edge,  had  seen,  followed  and 
understood  every  movement  they  had  made, 
the  full  meaning  of  that  changing  outline  before 
them,  the  final  nearness  shown  by  the  solidity 
of  the  approaching  grey  shape;  and  the  one 
thought  in  his  mind  was  a  memory  of  two 
men  meeting  face  to  face  on  a  pavement,  both 
stepping  sideways  in  the  same  direction,  stepping 
back,  hesitating  and  stepping  aside  again,  halt- 
ing, still  face  to  face,  and  glaring  or  grinning  at 
each  other.  Here  they  were  doing  just  the 
same,  only  up  and  down  instead  of  sideways 
— and  here  there  was  no  stopping. 

He  too  saw  the  spread  of  wings  loom  up  and 


A  TENDER  SUBJECT  43 

out  of  either  side  of  them,  rushing  up  to  meet 
them.  The  spread  almost  matched  and  measured 
their  own — which  meant  a  nose-to-nose  crash. 
The  cloud  face  was  stirring,  swirling,  tearing 
open  from  the  rush  of  their  opposing  windage. 
Had  Charger  time  to — no,  no  time.  They 
must  be  just  ...  it  would  be  on  the  very- 
cloud  edge  they  would  meet — were  meeting 
(why  didn^t  Charger  turn,  push  her  down,  do 
something — anything)  .  .  .  meeting  .  .  .  (no 
escape  after  this  collision — end  on!)  .  .  .  now! 

Next  instant  they  were  in  darkness — thick, 
wet,  clammy  darkness.  No  shock  and  crash 
of  collision  yet  ...  or  yet.  Billy  didn^t  under- 
stand. Was  he  dead?  Could  you  be  killed  so 
instantaneously  you  didn't  feel  it?  It  wasn't 
quite  dark — and  he  could  feel  the  cockpit  rim 
under  his  hands — and 

They  burst  clear  of  the  cloud,  with  trailing 
wisps  sucking  astern  after  them.  He  was  be- 
wildered. Then,  even  as  Charger  turned  and 
shouted  the  explanation,  he  guessed  at  it. 
''Shadow — our  own  shadow,"  yelled  Charger, 
and  Billy,  nodding  in  answer,  could  only  curse 
himself  for  a  fool  not  to  have  noticed  (as  he 
had  noticed  really  without  reasoning  why)  that 
the  blurred,  misty  shape  had  grown  smaller 
as  well  as  sharper  as  they  approached.  ''I 
didn't  think  of  it  either,"  Charger  confessed 
after  they  were  back  on  the  'drome,  ''and  it 
scared  me  stiff.  Looked  just  like  a  machine 
in  thick  cloud — blurred,  sort  of,  and  getting 
clearer  as  it  came  out  to  the  edge." 


44  A  TENDER  SUBJECT 

"It  was  as  bad  as  that  beastly  Hun,"  said 
Billy,  "or  worse";  and  Charger  agreed. 

Now  two  experiences  of  that  sort  might  easily 
break  any  man's  nerve,  and  most  men  would 
need  a  spell  off  after  an  episode  like  the  collision 
one.  But  Charger's  nerve  was  none  the 
worse,  and  although  Billy  swore  his  never 
really  recovered,  the  two  of  them  soon  after  put 
through  another  nose-on  charge  at  a  Hun,  in 
which  Charger  went  straight  as  ever,  and  when 
the  Hun  zoomed  up  and  over,  Billy  had  kept 
his  nerve  enough  to  have  his  gun  ready  and 
to  ^put  a  burst  of  bullets  up  and  into  him 
from  stem  to  stern  and  send  him  down  in 
flames. 

Everyone  in  the  Mess  agreed  here  that  the 
two  were  good  stout  men  and  had  nothing 
wrong  with  their  nerves. 

"Not  much,"  said  the  narrator,  "and  they're 
still  goin'  strong.  But  you  remember  what 
started  me  to  tell  you  about  them?" 

"Let's  see — yes,"  said  one  or  two.  "We 
were  talking  about  the  joke  of  that  couple  to- 
day being  so  scared  by  a  bit  of  fast  driving  on 
a  clear  road." 

"Right,"  said  the  other,  and  laughed. 
"Heaps  of  people  out  here  know  those  two, 
and  it's  a  standing  joke  that  you  can't  hire 
them  to  sit  on  the  front  seat  of  a  car  or  a  tender 
or  travel  anything  over  fifteen  miles  an  hour  in 
anything  on  wheels." 

He  waited  a  moment  for  some  jests  and 
chuckles    to    subside,    and    finished,    grinning 


A  TENDER  SUBJECT  45 

openly.  "They  are  the  two  I  told  you  about 
— Charger  Wicks  and  Billy  Bones!" 

There  was  dead  silence  for  a  minute.  Then, 
"Good  Lord!"  said  one  of  the  quartette  faintly, 
and  "Wh — which  was  Charger?"  faltered 
another.     "In  their  flying  kit  we  couldn't " 

"The  smallest — the  one  you  called  the  pale- 
faced,  nervy-looking  little  'un,"  said  "A"  Flight 
Commander. 

"Help!"  said  the  other  weakly.  "And  I— I 
recommended  him  'Sulphurine  Pills  for  Shaken 
Nerves.'     Oh,  help!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  last  of  the  demoralised 
quartette  miserably,  "and  he  thanked  us,  and 
said  he'd  write  it  down  the  minute  he  got  back." 

There  was  another  pause.  Then,  "Such  a 
joke!"  said  someone,  quoting  from  the  open- 
ing chapter  of  the  quartette's  story —  ^^such  a 
joke!"  And  the  Mess  broke  in  a  yell  of  up- 
roarious laughter. 

The  quartette  did  not  laugh. 


IV 

A  GOOD  DAY 

Half  an  hour  before  there  was  a  hint  of  dawn 
in  the  sky  the  Flight  was  out  with  the  machines 
lined  up  on  the  grass,  the  mechanics  busy  about 
them,  the  pilots  giving  preliminary  tests  and 
runs  to  their  engines.  There  had  been  showers 
of  rain  during  the  night,  welcome  rain  which 
had  laid  the  dust  on  the  roads  and  washed  it  off 
the  hedges  and  trees — rain  just  sufficient  to 
slake  the  thirst  of  the  parched  ground  and 
grass,  without  bringing  all  the  discomfort  of 
mud  and  mire  which  as  a  rule  comes  instantly 
to  mind  when  one  speaks  of  **rain*'  at  the 
Front. 

It  was  a  summer  dawn,  fresh,  and  cool,  and 
clean,  with  the  raindrops  still  gemming  the 
grass  and  leaves,  a  delicious  scent  of  moist 
earth  in  the  balmy  air,  a  happy  chorus  of  chirp- 
ing, twittering  birds  everywhere,  a  "great,'* 
a  ''gorgeous,"  a  ''perfect"  morning,  as  the 
pilots  told  each  other. 

A  beautiful  Sabbath  stillness,  a  gentle  calm 
hung  over  the  aerodrome  until  the  machines 
were  run  out  and  the  engines  began  to  tune  up. 
But  even  in  their  humming,  thrumming,  boom- 

46 


A  GOOD  DAY  47 

ing  notes  there  was  nothing  harsh  or  discordant 
or  greatly  out  of  keeping  with  the  air  of  peace 
and  happiness.  And  neither,  if  one  had  not 
known  what  it  was,  would  the  long  heavy 
rumble  that  beat  down  wind  have  wakened 
any  but  peaceful  thoughts.  It  might  have 
been  the  long  lazy  boom  of  the  surf  beating  in 
on  a  sandy  beach,  the  song  of  leaping  water- 
falls, the  distant  rumble  of  summer  thunder 
.  .  .  except  perhaps  for  the  quicker  drum-like 
roll  that  rose  swelling  every  now  and  then 
through  it,  the  sharper,  yet  dull  and  flat,  thudding 
bumps  and  thumps  that  to  any  understanding 
ear  marked  the  sound  for  what  it  was — the  roar 
of  the  guns. 

Already  the  guns  were  hard  at  it;  had  been 
for  days  and  nights  past,  in  fact;  would  be 
harder  at  it  than  ever  as  the  light  grew  on  this 
summer  morning,  for  this  was  the  day  set  for 
the  great  battle,  was  within  an  hour  or  two  of 
the  moment  marked  for  the  attack  to  begin. 

The  Squadron  Commander  was  out  long 
before  the  time  detailed  for  the  Flight  to  start. 
He  spoke  to  some  of  the  pilots,  looked  round, 
evidently  missed  someone,  and  was  just  be- 
ginning **  Where  is "  when  he  caught  sight 

of  a  figure  in  flying  clothes  hurrying  out  from 
the  huts.  The  figure  halted  to  speak  to  a 
pilot  and  the  Major  called  impatiently,  "Come 
along,  boy.  Waiting  for  you."  '*  Right,  sir," 
called  the  other,  and  then  laughingly  to  his 
companion,  "Worst  of  having  a  brother  for 
CO.    Always  privileged  to  chase  you." 


48  A  GOOD  DAY 

''Flight  Leader  ought  to  be  first,  Sonny,  not 
last,"  said  the  Major  as  the  boy  came  up. 
''Sorry,  Jim,'^  said  the  boy,  "I'm  all  ready," 
and  ran  on  to  his  waiting  machine. 

One  by  one  the  pilots  clambered  aboard  and 
settled  themselves  in  their  seats,  and  one  after 
another  the  engines  were  started,  sputtering 
and  banging  and  misbehaving  noisily  at  first 
in  some  cases,  but  quickly  steadying,  and,  after 
a  few  grunts  and  throaty  whurrumphs,  picking 
up  their  beat,  droning  out  the  deep  note  that 
rises  tone  by  tone  to  the  full  long  roaring  song 
of  perfect  power. 

The  Major  walked  along  the  line,  halted  at 
each  machine,  and  spoke  a  word  or  two  to  each 
pilot.  He  stood  a  little  longer  at  the  end 
machine  until  the  pilot  eased  his  engine  down 
and  its  roar  dropped  droning  to  a  quiet  "tick- 
ing over." 

"All  right  and  all  ready.  Sonny?"  said  the 
Major. 

"All  correct,  sir,"  said  Sonny  laughingly, 
and  with  a  half -joking  salute.  "Feel  fine, 
Jim,  and  the  old  bus  is  in  perfect  trim." 

"Think  the  rain  has  gone,"  said  the  Major. 
"It's  going  to  be  a  fine  day,  I  fancy." 

"It's  just  topping,"  cried  Sonny,  wrinklings 
his  nose  and  sniffing  luxuriously.  "Air's  as 
full  of  sweet  scent  as  a  hay  meadow  at  home." 

"Flight,  got  your  orders  all  clear  to  start?" 

Sonny  nodded.  "Yes,  we'll  show  you  the 
usual  star  turn  take-off  all  right.  You  watch 
us." 


A  GOOD  DAY  4^ 

The  Major  glanced  at  his  wrist- watch  and  at 
the  pahng  sky.  "Almost  time.  Well,  take 
care  of  yourself,  Sonny.''  He  put  his  hand  up 
on  the  edge  of  the  cockpit,  and  Sonny  slid  his 
glove  off,  and  gave  an  affectionate  little  squeeze 
to  the  fingers  that  came  over  the  edge. 

'*I'll  be  all  right,  Jim,  boy.  We're  going  to 
have  a  good  day.  Wish  you  were  coming  with 
us."  ^ 

"Wish  I  were,"  said  the  Major.  "Good 
luck,"  and  he  stepped  and  walked  out  in  front 
of  the  line  of  machines,  halted,  and  glanced  at 
his  watch  and  up  at  the  sky  again. 

The  half-dozen  machines,  too,  stood  waiting 
and  motionless,  except  for  the  answering  quiver 
that  ran  through  them  to  their  engines'  beat. 
Down  from  the  Hne  the  throbbing  roll  of  the 
gunfire  rose  louder  and  heavier,  with  a  new, 
an  ugly  and  sinister  snarling  note  running 
through  it.  The  flat  thudding  reports  of  the 
nearer  Heavies  came  at  quicker  and  closer  in- 
tervals, the  rumble  of  the  further  and  smaller 
pieces  ran  up  to  the  steady  unbroken  roar  of 
drum-fire. 

The  wind  was  coming  from  the  line  and  the 
machines  were  lined  up  facing  into  it,  so  that 
the  pilots  had  before  them  the  jumping,  flickering 
lights  which  flamed  up  across  the  sky  from  the 
guns'  discharge.  Earlier,  these  flashes  had  blazed 
up  in  broad  sheets  of  yellow-  and  orange-tinted 
light  from  the  horizon  to  half  way  up  the  height 
of  the  sky,  leaped  and  sank,  leaped  again  and 
beat  throbbing  and  pulsing  wave  on  wave,  or 


60  A  GOOD  DAY 

flickering  and  quivering  jerkily  for  seconds  on 
end,  dying  down,  and  immediately  flaring  up 
in  wide  sheet-lightning  glows.  Now,  in  the 
growing  light  the  gun-flashes  showed  more  and 
more  faintly,  in  sickly  pallid  flashes.  There 
was  no  halt  or  pause  between  the  jumping 
lights  now;  they  trembled  and  flickered  un- 
ceasingly, with  every  now  and  then  a  broader, 
brighter  glare  wiping  out  the  lesser  lights. 

The  pilots  sat  watching  the  battle  lights, 
listening  to  the  shaking  battle  thunder,  and 
waiting  the  Squadron  Commander's  signal  to 
go.  The  birds  were  chattering  happily  and 
noisily,  and  a  lark  climbed,  pouring  out  long 
shrill  bursts  of  joyful  song;  somewhere  over 
in  the  farmyard  beside  the  'drome  a  cock  crowed 
shrilly,  and  from  one  of  the  workshops  came 
the  cheerful  clink-link,  clink-link  of  hammers 
on  an  anvil. 

It  was  all  very  happy  and  peaceful — except 
for  the  jumping  gun-flashes  and  rolling  gun-fire; 
life  was  very  sweet  and  pleasant — unless  one 
thought  of  life  over  there  in  the  trenches,  and 
what  the  next  hour  or  two  would  bring.  Every- 
one knew  there  was  "dirty  work"  ahead.  It 
was  the  first  really  big  "show"  the  Squadron 
had  been  in;  they  had  been  in  plenty  of  the 
ordinary  O.P.'s  (Offensive  Patrols)  and  air- 
scraps,  but  this  was  the  real  big  thing,  a  great 
battle  on  the  ground,  and  a  planned  attack  on 
the  grand  scale  in  the  air,  which  was  to  sweep 
the  sky  of  Huns  .  .  .  and  the  gunfire  was  still 
growing  .  .  .  and  the  lark  up  there  was  burst- 


.     '  A  GOOD  DAY  51 

ing  his  throat  to  tell  them  what  a  pleasant 
place  the  world  was  on  this  summer  morning, 
with  the  raindrops  fresh  on  the  grass  and  the 
breeze  cool  in  the  trees. 

Nearly  time!  The  Flight  Leader  ran  his 
engine  up  again,  its  humming  drone  rising  to  a 
full  deep-chested  roar.  The  other  pilots  followed 
suit,  engine  after  engine  picking  up  the  chorus 
and  filling  the  air  with  deafening  and  yet  har- 
monious sound.  A  man  stood  just  clear  of  the 
wing-tips  to  either  side  of  each  machine  holding 
a  cord  fast  to  the  wood  blocks  chocked  under 
the  wheels;  another  man  or  two  clung  to  each 
tail,  holding  it  down  against  the  pull  of  the 
propeller,  their  sleeves,  jacket  tails,  and  trouser 
legs  fluttering  wildly  in  the  gales  which  poured 
aft  from  the  whirling  screws  and  sent  twigs 
and  leaves  and  dust  flying  and  dancing  back 
in  a  rushing  stream.  So  the  pilots  sat  for 
a  minute,  their  faces  intent  and  earnest,  lis- 
tening to  the  hum  and  beat  of  their  engines 
and  note  of  their  propellers'  roar,  watching  the 
Flight  Leader's  movements  out  of  the  tail  of 
their  eyes.  He  eased  his  engine  down;  and 
promptly  every  other  engine  eased.  He  waved 
his  hand  to  right  and  left,  and  the  waiting  men 
jerked  the  chocks  clear  of  his  wheels;  and  five 
other  hands  waved  and  five  other  pairs  of 
chocks  jerked  clear.  He  moved  forward,  swung 
to  the  right  with  a  man  to  each  wing  tip  to  help 
swing  him,  and  rolled  steadily  out  into  the 
pen;  and  five  other  machines  moved  forward, 
swung  right,  and  followed  in  line  astern  of  him. 


52  A  GOOD  DAY 

He  wheeled  to  the  left,  moved  more  quickly, 
opened  his  engine  up,  ran  forward  at  gathering 
speed.  Moving  slowly  his  machine  had  looked 
like  a  lumbering  big  fat  beetle;  skimming  rapidly 
across  the  grass,  with  its  nose  down  and  its  tail 
up,  it  changed  to  an  excited  hen  racing  with 
outstretched  head  and  spread  wings;  then — a 
lift — an  upward  ^swoop  and  rush — and  she 
was  ...  a  swallow,  an  eagle,  a  soaring  gull — 
any  of  these  you  like  as  symbols  of  speed  and 
power  and  grace,  but  best  symbol  of  all  perhaps, 
just  herself,  for  what  she  was — a  clean-built, 
stream-lined,  hundred-and-umpty  horse,  fast, 
fighting-scout  aeroplane. 

The  Squadron  Commander  stood  watching 
the  take-off  of  the  Flight  with  a  thrill  of  pride, 
and  truly  it  was  a  sight  to  gladden  the  heart 
of  any  enthusiast.  As  the  Flight  Leader's 
machine  tucked  up  her  tail  and  raced  to  pick 
up  speed,  the  second  machine  had  followed 
her  round  her  curve,  steadied,  and  began  to 
move  forward,  gathering  way  in  her  very  wheel- 
tracks.  As  the  Leader  hoicked  up  and  away, 
the  second  machine  was  picking  up  her  skirts 
and  making  her  starting  rush;  and  the  third 
machine  was  steadying  round  the  turn  to  fol- 
low. As  the  second  left  the  ground,  the  third 
began  to  make  her  run,  and  the  fourth  was 
round  the  turn  and  ready  to  follow.  So  they 
followed,  machine  by  machine,  evenly  spaced  in 
distance  apart,  running  each  other's  tracks 
down,  leaping  off  within  yards  of  the  same 
point,  each  following  the  other  into  the  air  as 


A  GOOD  DAY  53 

if  they  were  tied  on  lengths  of  a  string.  It  was 
a  perfect  exhibition  of  Flight  Leadership — and 
following.  One  turn  round  the  'drome  they 
made,  and  the  Flight  was  in  perfect  formation 
and  sailing  off  to  the  east,  climbing  as  it  went. 
The  Commander  stood  and  watched  them  gain 
their  height  in  one  more  wide  sweeping  turn 
and  head  due  east,  then  moved  towards  the 
huts. 

The  hammers  were  still  beating  out  their 
cheery  clink-link,  the  birds  chirping  and  twitter- 
ing; the  lark,  silenced  or  driven  from  the  sky 
by  these  strange  monster  invaders,  took  up 
his  song  again  and  shrilled  out  to  all  the  world 
that  it  was  a  joy  to  live — to  live — to  live — this 
perfect  summer  morning. 

And  the  guns  replied  in  sullen  rolling  thunder. 
.  .  .  .  • 

The  last  red  glow  of  sunset  was  fading  out 
of  the  square  of  sky  seen  through  the  open 
Squadron-office  window.  The  Major  sat  in  his 
own  place  at  the  centre  of  the  table,  and  his 
Colonel,  with  the  dust  of  motor  travel  still 
thick  on  his  cap  and  coat,  sat  by  the  empty 
fire-place  listening  and  saying  nothing.  A  young 
lad,  with  leather  coat  thrown  open  and  leather 
helmet  pushed  back  on  his  head,  stood  by  the 
table  and  spoke  rapidly  and  eagerly.  He  was 
one  of  the  Patrol  that  had  left  at  dawn,  had  made 
a  forced  landing,  had  only  just  reached  the 
'drome,  and  had  come  straight  to  the  office 
to  report  and  tell  his  tale. 

^'I  have  the  Combat  Report,  of  course,''  said 


54  A  GOOD  DAY 

the  Major;  ''you  might  read  it  first — and  Vve 
some  other  details;  but  I'd  like  to  know  any- 
thing further  you  can  tell." 

The  lad  read  the  Report,  a  bare  dozen  lines, 
of  which  two  and  a  half  told  the  full  tale  of  a 
brave  man's  death —  ^^as  he  went  down  out 
of  control  he  signalled  to  break  off  the  fight  and 
return,  and  then  for  the  Deputy  to  take  command. 
He  was  seen  to  crashJ^ 

'* That's  true,  sir,"  said  the  lad,  "but  d'you 
know — d'you  see  what  it — all  it  meant?  We'd 
been  scrappin'  half  an  hour.  We  were  on  our 
last  rounds  and  our  last  pints  of  petrol  .  .  . 
against  seventeen  Huns,  and  we'd  crashed 
four  and  put  three  down  out  of  control  .  .  . 
they  were  beat,  and  we  knew  it,  and  meant  to 
chase  'em  off." 

He  had  been  speaking  rapidly,  almost  inco- 
herently, but  now  he  steadied  himself  and  spoke 
carefully. 

"Then  he  saw  their  reinforcements  comin' 
up,  one  lot  from  north,  t'other  from  south. 
They'd  have  cut  us  off.  We  were  too  busy 
scrappin'  to  watch.  They  had  us  cold,  with  us 
on  our  last  rounds  and  nearly  out  of  petrol. 
But  he  saw  them.  He  was  shot  down  then — I 
dunno  whether  it  was  before  or  after  it  that  he 
saw  them;  but  he  was  goin'  down  right  out  of 
control — dead-leafing,  then  a  spin,  then  leafing 

again.     And  he  signalled "     The  boy  gulped, 

caught  and  steadied  his  voice  again,  and  went 
on  quietly.  "You  know;  there's  half  a  dozen 
coloured  lights  stuck  in  the  dash-board  in  front 


A  GOOD  DAY  65 

of  him — and  his  Verey  pistol  in  the  rack  be- 
side him.  He  picked  out  the  proper  coloured 
light — ^goin'  down  helplessly  out  of  control — 
and  took  his  pistol  out  of  the  rack  .  .  .  and 
loaded  it  .  .  .  and  put  it  over  the  side  and 
fired  his  signal,  'Get  back  to  the  'drome — 
return  home/  whatever  it  is  exactly — we  all 
knew  it  meant  to  break  off  the  scrap  and  clear 
out,  anyway.  But  he  wasn't  done  yet.  He 
picked  another  light — the  proper  coloured  light 
again  .  .  .  and  still  knowin'  he'd  crash  in  the 
next  few  seconds  .  .  .  and  loaded  and  fired, 
*I  am  out  of  action.  Deputy  Flight  Leader 
carry   on.'  .  .  .  Then  ...  he   crashed.  ..." 

The  boy  gulped  again  and  stopped,  and  for  a 
space  there  was  dead  silence. 

'*  Thank  you,"  said  the  Squadron  Commander 
at  last,  very  quietly,  ''I  won't  ask  you  for  more 
now." 

The  boy  saluted  and  turned,  but  the  Major 
spoke  again.  ^^  There's  a  message  here  I've 
just  had.     You  might  like  to  read  it." 

The  pilot  took  it  and  read  a  message  of  con- 
gratulations and  thanks  from  Headquarters  on 
the  work  of  the  Air  Services  that  day,  saying 
how  the  Huns  had  been  driven  out  of  the  air, 
how  so  many  of  them  had  been  crashed,  so  many 
driven  down  out  of  control,  with  slight  losses 
of  so  many  machines  to  us.  ''On  all  the  fronts 
engaged,"  the  message  finished,  "the  Squadrons 
have  done  well,  and  the  Corps  has  had  a  good 
day." 

"A  good  day,"   said  the  boy  bitterly,   and 


56  A  GOOD  DAY 

spat  a  gust  of  oaths.  '^I — pardon,  sir/*  he  said, 
catching  the  Major^s  eye  and  the  ColoneFs  quick 
glance.  ^^But — Sonny  was  my  pal;  I  was  his 
chum,  the  best  chum  he  had— — "  He  checked 
himself  again,  and  after  a  pause,  *'No,  sir,"  he 
said  humbly,  '^I  beg  your  pardon.  You  were 
always  that  to  Sonny."  He  saluted  again,  very 
gravely  and  exactly,  turned,  and  went. 

The  Colonel  rose.  '^It's  true,  too,"  said  the 
Major,  ^^I  was;  and  he  was  the  dearest  chum 
to  me.  I  fathered  him  since  he  was  ten,  when 
our  Pater  died.  I  taught  him  to  fly — took  him  up 
dual  myself,  and  I  remember  he  was  quick  as  a 
monkey  in  learning.  I  watched  his  first  solo, 
with  my  heart  in  my  mouth;  and  I  had  ten 
times  the  pride  he  had  himself  when  he  put  his 
first  wings  up.     And  now  .  .  .  he's  gone." 

'^He  saved  his  Flight,"  said  the  Colonel 
softly.  "You  heard.  It's  him  and  his  like 
that  make  the  Corps  what  it  is.  They  show 
the  way,  and  the  others  carry  on.  They  go 
down,  but" — he  tapped  his  finger  slowly  on  the 
message  lying  on  the  table,  "but  .  .  .  the  Corps 
'has  had  A  Good  Day.'" 


(To  the  tune  of  "John  Brown's  Body") 

Half  the  Flight  may  crash  to-day  and  t'other  half  to-night, 
But  the  Flight  does  dawn  patrol,  before  to-morrow's  light, 
And  if  we  live  or  if  we  die,  the  Corps  still  wins  the  fight, 
4nd  the  war  goes  rolling  on. 


A  ROTTEN  FORMATION 

The  Major  lifted  his  head  from  the  pile  of  papers 
he  was  reading  and  signing,  and  listened  to  the 
hum  of  an  engine  passing  over  the  office  and 
circling  down  to  the  'drome.  '^One  of  ours," 
he  said.  '^Flight  coming  down,  I  suppose. 
They're  rather  late." 

An  officer  lounging  on  a  blanket-covered 
truckle  bed  murmured  something  in  reply  and 
returned  to  the  sixpenny  magazine  he  was  de- 
vouring. The  noise  of  the  engine  droned  down 
to  the  ground  level,  ceased,  stuttered,  and  rose, 
sank  again,  and  finally  stopped.  The  CO. 
hurried  on  with  his  papers,  knowing  the  pilots 
of  the  Flight  would  be  in  presently  to  make  their 
reports. 

In  three  minutes  the  door  banged  open 
noisily,  and  the  Flight  Leader  clumped  heavily 
in.  Such  of  his  features  as  could  be  seen  for  a 
leather  helmet  coming  low  on  his  forehead  and 
close  round  his  cheeks,  and  a  deep  collar  turned 
up  about  his  chin,  disclosed  an  expression  of  bad 
temper  and  dissatisfaction. 

'' Hullo,  Blanky,"  said  the  Major  cheer- 
fully. ''Made  rather  a  long  job  of  it,  didn't 
you?    Any  Huns  about?" 

57 


58  A  ROTTEN  FORMATION 

Now  Blanky  had  an  established  and  well- 
deserved  reputation  for  bad  language,  and 
although  usually  a  pilot  is  expected  more  or  less 
to  modify  any  pronounced  features  in  language 
in  addressing  his  CO.,  there  are  times  when 
he  fails  to  do  so,  and  times  when  the  CO.  wisely 
ignores  the  failure.  This  apparently  was  one 
of  the  times,  and  the  Major  listened  without 
remark  to  a  stream  of  angry  and  sulphurous 
revilings  of  the  luck,  the  Huns,  the  fight  the 
Flight  had  just  come  through,  and  finally — or  one 
might  say  firstly,  at  intervals  throughout,  and 
finally— the  Flight  itself. 

^' Three  blessed  quarters  of  a  bloomin'  hour 
we  were  scrappinV'  said  Blanky  savagely, 
"and  I  suppose  half  the  blistering  machines  in 
the  blinking  Flight  are  shot  up  to  everlastin' 
glory.  I  know  half  the  flamin'  controls  and 
flyin'  wires  are  blanky  well  cut  on  my  goldarn 
bus.  And  two  confounded  Huns'  brimstone 
near  got  me,  because  the  cock-eyed  idiot  who 
should  have  been  watching  my  plurry  tail  went 
harein'  off  to  heaven  and  the  Hot  Place.  But 
no-dash-body  watched  any-darn-body's  tail. 
Went  split-armin'  around  the  ruddy  sky  like 
a  lot  of  runaway  racin'  million-horse-power 
comets.  Flight!  Dot,  dash,  asterisk!  For- 
mation!    Stars,  stripes,  and  spangles " 

He  broke  off  with  a  gesture  of  despair  and 
disgust.  None  of  this  harangue  was  very  in- 
forming, except  it  made  clear  that  the  Flight  had 
been  in  a  fight,  and  that  Blanky  was  not 
pleased  with  the  result  or  the  Flight.    The  Major 


A  ROTTEN  FORMATION  59 

questioned  gently  for  further  details,  but  hearing 
the  note  of  another  descending  engine  Blanky 
went  off  at  a  tangent  again.  Here  one  of  them 
came  .  .  .  about  half  an  hour  after  him  .  .  .  wait 
till  he  saw  them  .  .  .  he^d  tell  them  all  about  it 
.  .  .  and  so  on. 

'^Did  you  down  any  Huns?''  asked  the 
Major,  and  Blanky  told  him  No,  not  one  sin- 
gle, solitary,  stream-line  Hun  crashed,  and 
couldn't  even  swear  to  any  out  of  control.  Before 
the  Major  could  say  more,  the  office  door  opened 
to  admit  a  leather-clad  pilot  grinning  cheerfully 
all  over  his  face.  Blanky  whirled  and  burst 
out  on  him,  calling  him  this,  that,  and  the  other, 
demanding  to  know  what  the,  where  the,  why 
the,  advising  him  to  go'n  learn  to  drive  a  beastly 
wheel-barrow,  and  buy  a  toy  gun  with  a  cork 
on  a  string  to  shoot  with.  The  bewildered  pilot 
strove  to  make  some  explanation,  to  get  a  word 
in  edgeways,  but  he  hadn't  a  hope  until  Blanky 
paused  for  breath.     "I  didn't  break  formation 

for    more'n    a    minute "    he    began,    when 

Blanky  interrupted  explosively,  '^  Break  for- 
mation— no,  'cos  there  wasn't  a  frescoed  for- 
mation left  to  break.  It  had  gone  to  gilt- 
edged  glory,  and  never  came  back.  But  /  was 
there,  and  your  purple  place  was  behind  me. 
Why  the  which  did  you  leave  there?" 

"Because  I'd  winged  the  Hun  that  was  sitting 
on  your  tail,"  said  the  other  indignantly.  *'I 
had  to  go  after  him  to  get  him." 

"Get  him,"  said  Blanky  contemptuously. 
"Well,  why  didn't  you?" 


60  A  ROTTEN  FORMATION 

"I  did/'  said  the  pilot  complacently.  At  that 
Blanky  broke  loose  and  cried  aloud  for  the 
wrath  to  descend  and  annihilate  any  man  who 
could  stand  there  and  deliberately  murder  the 
truth.  *^But  I  did  get  him.  I  watched  him 
crash  right  enough/'  retorted  the  maligned  one. 
Blanky  was  still  yelling  at  him,  when  in  came 
another  couple  talking  eagerly  and  also  with 
faces  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  evidently  well 
pleased  with  the  world.  *' Hullo,  Blanky,"  said 
the  first.     ''Pretty  good  show,  eh?" 

Blanky  wheeled  and  stared  at  him  as  if 
in  dumb  amazement.  ''Blanky  doesn't  think 
so,"  said  the  Major  softly.  "He's  complaining  a 
good  deal  that  your  formation  wasn't  very  good." 

"Good,  Major,"  exploded  Blanky  again. 
"It  was  worse  than  very  beastly  bad.  I  never 
adverbed  saw  such  an  adjectived  rank  bad 
formation.  It  was  a  rotten  formation.  And 
then  Billie  tells  me — ^has  the  crimson  cheek  to 
say  he  crashed  a  constellation  Hun." 

"Ask  Tom  there,"  said  Billie.  "Tom,  didn't 
you  see  me  put  one  down?  " 

Tom  couldn't  be  sure.  He'd  been  too  busy 
with  a  Hun  himself.  He  and  the  Diver  had  one 
fellow  between  them,  and  both  shootin'  like  stink 
at  him,  and  were  watching  after  to  see  if  he 
crashed 

"Crashed,"  burst  in  Blanky.  "My  sainted 
sacred  aunt.  Another  fellow  walking  in  his  sleep 
and  killing  criss-cross  Huns  in  his  dithering 
dreams.  Any  imagining  more  of  you  get  a 
fabulous  freak  Hun?  " 


A  ROTTEN  FORMATION  61 

The  Diver  said  mildly,  ''Yes,"  he'd  got  one — 
not  counting  the  one  between  him  and  Tom, 
which  might  have  been  either's.  Blanky  was 
beginning  again,  when  the  Major  stopped  him. 
''This  is  getting  too  complicated,'*  he  said. 
"Let's  get  the  lot  together — observers  and 
all — and  see  if  we  can  make  anything  of  this 
business." 

A  babble  of  voices  was  heard  outside,  the  door 
banged  open,  and  in  jostled  another  batch  of 
pilots  and  observers  talking  at  the  pitch  of  their 
voices,  laughing,  shouting  questioning,  answer- 
ing, trampling  their  heavy  flying  boots  noisily 
on  the  bare  wood  floor,  turning  the  little  office 
hut  into  a  regular  bear-garden.  Their  leather 
coats  were  unbuttoned  and  flapping,  their  long 
boots  hung  wrinkled  about  their  knees  or  were 
pulled  thigh-high,  scarves  swathed  their  throats 
or  dangled  down  their  chests,  enormous  furry 
gauntletted  gloves  hid  their  hands.  Some  still 
wore  their  leather  helmets  with  goggles  pushed 
up  over  their  foreheads;  others  had  taken  them 
off,  and  looked  like  some  strange  pantomime 
monsters  with  funnily  disproportionate  faces 
and  heads  emerging  from  the  huge  leather  collars. 
For  minutes  the  room  was  a  hopeless  bedlam  of 
noise.  Everyone  talked  at  once:  all,  slightly 
deaf  perhaps  from  the  long-endured  roar  of  the 
engines,  and  rush  of  the  wind,  talked  their  loud- 
est. They  compared  notes  of  flashing  incidents 
seen  for  a  fraction  of  a  second  in  the  fighting,  tried 
to  piece  together  each  others'  seeings  and  doings, 
told   what   had  happened   to   them   and  their 


62  A  ROTTEN  FORMATION 

engines  and  machines,  asked  questions,  and, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer,  asked  another,  or 
answered  somebody  else^s. 

The  voice  of  Blanky  haranguing  some  of 
the  last-comers,  caUing  down  curses  on  their 
misdeeds,  rose  through  any  break  in  the  hubbub. 
The  Major  sat  for  some  minutes  listening  to  the 
uproar,  catching  beginnings  and  middles  and 
loose  ends  of  sentences  here  and  there  from  one 
or  another:  ''Gave  him  a  good  half  drum."  .  .  . 
''Shot  away  my  left  aileron  control."  .  .  . 
"Went  hareing  off  over  Hunland  at  his  hardest," 
.  .  .  "Pulled  everything  in  sight  and  pushed  the 
others,  but  couldn't  get  her  straightened."  .  .  . 
"A  two-inch  tear  in  my  radiator,  an'  spoutin' 
steam  like  an  old  steam  laundry."  .  .  .  And  then 
the  voice  of  Blanky  spitting  oaths  and  "It 
was  the  rottenest  formation  I  ever  saw,  abso- 
blanky-lutely  rotten.' '  His  sentence  was  swamped 
again  in  the  flood  of  talk  and  fragments  of 
sentences.  "Then  it  jammed — number  three 
stoppage  and"  .  .  .  " yellin' myself  black  in  the 
face,  but  couldn't  make  him  hear."  ...  "I  hate 
those  filthy  explosive  bullets  of  theirs."  .  .  . 
"Chuckedher  into  a  spin."  .  .  .  "Missing  every 
other  stroke,  fizzing  and  spitting  like  a  crazy  Tom 
cat."  ...  "I  ask  you  now,  I  ask  you  what  could 
I  do?"  .  .  .  "Down  flamin'  like  a  disembowelled 
volcano." 

The  Major  called,  called  again,  raised  his 
voice  and  shouted,  and  gradually  the  noise  died 
down. 

"Now,  let's  get  to  business,"  he  said.     "I 


A  ROTTEN  FORMATION  63 

want  to  know  what  happened.  Blanky,  let's 
hear  you  first." 

Blanky  told  his  story  briefly.  The  for- 
mation of  six  machines  had  run  into  twenty-two 
Huns — four  two-seaters,  the  rest  fighting  scouts 
— and  had  promptly  closed  with  and  engaged 
them.  Blanky  here  threw  in  a  few  brief  but 
pungent  criticisms  on  the  Flight's  behaviour  and 
*' rotten  formation"  during  the  fight,  mentioned 
baldly  that  they  had  scrapped  for  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  and  although  there  were 
certainly  fewer  Huns  in  at  the  finish  than  had 
begun,  none,  so  far  as  he  knew,  had  been  crashed. 
All  the  Flight  had  returned,  mostly  with  a  good 
few  minor  damages  to  machines,  but  no  casual- 
ties to  men. 

*'Now,"  said  the  Major,  "some  of  you  claim 
Huns  crashed,  don't  you?  Let  'em  alone, 
Blanky,  to  tell  their  own  yarns." 

The  first  pilot  told  of  running  fights,  said  he 
had  sent  at  least  one  down  out  of  control,  and 
saw  one  crash.  His  observer  corroborated  the 
account;  Blanky  pooh-poohed  it  scornfully. 
He  contradicted  flatly  and  hotly  another  pilot 
who  said  he  had  crashed  his  Hun,  and  in 
the  middle  of  the  argument  the  last  pilot 
came  in. 

"Here's  Dicky.  Ask  him.  He  was  close  up, 
and  saw  me  get  'im,"  said  the  denied  victor. 

"Dicky,"  cried  Blanky,  "I've  been  wait- 
ing for — here,  you  cock-eyed  quirk,  what  in  the 
Hot  Place  did  you  mean  by  bargin'  across  the 
nose  of  my  bus  when  I'd  just  got  a  sanguinary 


64  A  ROTTEN  FORMATION 

Hun  in  my  ensanguined  sights.  You  blind, 
blithering  no-good.  ..." 

"What's  that,  Blanky?  What  d'you  say? 
remarked  Dicky  cheerfully.  "Wait  a  bit.  My 
ears  .  .  .''  He  gripped  his  nose  and  violently 
"blew  through  his  ears"  to  remove  the  deaf- 
ness that  comes  to  a  man  who  has  descended  too 
quickly  from  a  height.  "Didn't  you  see  me  get 
that  Hun,  Dicky?"  demanded  the  Diver. 
"Why  didn't  you  keep  formation?  Served  you 
something  well  otherthing  right  if  I'd  shot  you, 
blinding  across  under  my  gory  prop.  ..." 

Dicky  gripped  his  nose  and  blew  again. 
"Wait  a  minute — can't  hear  right.  ..." 

The  talk  was  boiling  up  all  round  them 
again,  in  claims  of  a  kill,  counter-claims,  corrob- 
orations, and  denials,  and  the  Major  sat  back 
and  let  it  run  for  a  bit.  Blanky,  the  Diver, 
and  Dicky  held  a  three-cornered  duel,  Blanky 
strafing  wildly,  the  Diver  demanding  evidence  of 
his  kill  and  Dicky  holding  his  nose  and  blowing, 
and  returning  utterly  misfitting  answers  to  both. 
He  caught  a  word  of  Blanky's  tirade  at  last, 
something  about  "silly  yahoo  bashing  around," 
misinterpreted  it  evidently,  and,  still  holding  his 
nose,  grinned  cheerfully  and  nodded.  "Did 
I  crash  a  Hun?"  he  said.  "Sure  thing  I  did. 
Put  'im  down  in  flames." 

The  Diver  leaned  close  and  yelled  in  Dicky's 
ear:  "Didn't  I  crash — one — too?"  Dicky 
blew  again.  "No,  I  didn't  crash  two,"  he  said. 
"Only  one,  I  saw,  though  there  was  another 
blighter " 


A  ROTTEN  FORMATION  65 

Blanky  turned  disgustedly  to  the  Major. 
''They're  crazy,"  he  said.  ''I  know  I  didn't 
see  one  single  unholy  Hun  crashed  in  the  whole 
sinful  show. 

''Between  them  they  claim  five,"  said  the 
Major,  "and  you  say  none.  What  about  your- 
self?   Didn't  you  get  any?" 

"No,"  said  Blanky  shortly.  "One  or  two 
down  out  of  control,  but  I  didn't  watch  'em, 
and  they  probably  straightened  out  lower  down." 
(Blanky,  it  may  be  mentioned,  has  a  record 
of  never  having  claimed  a  single  Hun  crashed, 
but  is  credited,  nevertheless,  with  a  round  dozen 
from  entirely  outside  evidence.) 

The  Major  spent  another  noisy  three  minutes 
trying  to  sift  the  tangled  evidence  and  claims 
of  crashes,  then  gave  it  up.  "Write  your  re- 
ports," he  said,  "and  we'll  have  to  wait  and  see 
if  any  confirmation  comes  in  of  any  crashes.  You 
were  near  enough  to  the  line  for  crashes  to  be 
seen,  weren't  you?" 

"Near  enough?"  said  Blanky.  .  "Too  dis- 
gustingly near.  I  suppose  anyone  that  knows  a 
bus  from  a  banana  would  recognise  the  make  of 
ours,  and  I'm  rank  ashamed  to  imagine  what 
the  whole  blinking  line  must  have  thought  of  the 
Squadron  and  the  paralysed  performance." 

The  bir-r-r  of  the  telephone  bell  cut  sharply 
through  the  noisy  talk,  and  the  Major  shouted 
for  silence.  He  got  it  at  last,  and  the  room 
listened  to  the  one-sided  conversation  that  fol- 
lowed. Some  of  the  men  continued  their  talk 
in   whispers,    Blanky   fumbled   out   and   lit   a 


66  A  ROTTEN  FORMATION 

cigarette,  Dicky  dropped  on  the  bed  beside  the 
man  with  the  book,  who,  through  all  the  uproar, 
had  kept  his  eyes  glued  to  the  magazine  pages. 
*^What  you  got  there?"  asked  Dicky  conver- 
sationally.    ''Any  good? " 

''Good  enough  for  me  to  want  to  read,'' 
snapped  the  other.  "But  a  man  couldn't  read 
in  this  row  if  he  was  stone  deaf." 

"Well,  y'see,  they're  all  a  bit  bucked  with  the 
scrap,"  said  Dicky  apologetically. 

"Oh,  bust  the  scrap,"  said  the  reader.  "I'm 
sick  of  scraps  and  Huns.  Do  dry  up  and  let 
me  read,"  and  he  buried  himself  again  in  the 
fiction  that  to  him  at  least  was  stranger  than  the 
naked  truth  that  rioted  about  his  unheeding  ears. 

The  Major's  end  of  the  talk  consisted  at  first 
of  "Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  oh,  yes,"  and  then, 
more  intelligibly,  "Yes,  pretty  good  scrap 
evidently.  .  .  .  No,  they're  all  back,  thanks.  .  .  . 
Thanks,  I'm  glad  you  think — what?  .  .  .  Are  you 
sure?  .  .  .  Quite  sure?  Good.  There's  been 
rather  an  argument.  .  .  .  Six?  Quite  certain? 
.  .  .  Thanks  very  much. ...  I  suppose  you'll  send 
a  report  confirming  .  .  .  Right.  Thanks.  .  .  . 
Good-bye." 

He  put  the  receiver  down  on  the  stand  and 
turned  to  Blanky  with  a  smile  twitching  his 
lips.     "Our  Archies,"  he  explained,  "rang  up  to 

tell  me  they'd  watched  the  whole  show " 

"Pretty  sight,  too,"  growled  Blanky.  The 
Major  went  on:  "and  to  congratulate  the 
Squadron  on  a  first-class  fight.  And  they  posi- 
tively confirm  six  crashes,  Blanky;    saw  them 


A  ROTTEN  FORMATION  67 

hit  the  ground  and  smash.  Some  others  seen 
low  down  out  of  control,  and  could  hardly 
recover,  but  weren't  seen  actually  to  crash.  So 
we  only  get  six — and  as  the  others  only  claim 
five,  you  must  have  got  yours  after  all.'* 

^'Course  he  got  it,"  struck  in  Blanky's 
observer;  ^'only  I  knew  he'd  argue  me  down  if 
I " 

''Oh,  shut  up,"  said  Blanky.  *'How  could 
you  see?  You  were  looking  over. the  tail,  any- 
way." 

''Well,    I   knew   I   got   mine,"    said    Dicky. 

"Me,  too"  .  .  .  "And  I  was  sure "  .  .  .  "And 

I  saw  mine."  N  < 

"For  the  love  of  Christmas,  dry  up,"  stormed 
Blanky.  "If  you  could  only  fly  as  well  as 
you  can  talk,  you  might  make  a  half-baked 
blistering  Flight.  As  it  is  you're  more  like  a  fat- 
headed  flock  o'  incarnadined  crows  split-armin' 
over  a  furrow  in  a  ploughed  field.  Of  all  the 
dazzling  dud  formations  I  ever  saw " 

"Never  mind,  Blanky,"  said  the  Major. 
"You  got  six  confirmed  crashes  amongst  you, 
so  it  wasn't  too  dud  a  show." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Blanky,  tramping  to 
the  door  and  jerking  it  open.  "I  don't  care  a 
tuppenny  tinker's  dash  what  Huns  we  got."  He 
swung  through,  and,  turning  in  the  doorway 
with  his  hand  on  the  knob,  shouted  back  with 
all  the  emphasis  of  last-word  finality:  "I  tell 
you  it  was  a  rotten  formation,  anyway." 

Behind  him  the  door  si^ammec?  tremendously. 


VI 

QUICK  WORK 

It  is  difficult,  if  not  indeed  impossible,  to  convey 
in  words  what  is  perhaps  the  most  breath- 
catching  wonder  of  air-fighting  work,  the  furious 
speed,  the  whirling  rush,  the  sheer  rapidity  of 
movement  of  the  fighting  machines,  and  the 
incredible  quickness  of  a  pilot's  brain,  hand,  and 
eye  to  handle  and  manoeuvre  a  machine,  and 
aim  and  shoot  a  gun  under  these  speed  con- 
ditions. I  can  only  ask  you  to  try  to  remember 
that  a  modern  fast  scout  is  capable  of  flying  at 
well  over  a  hundred  miles  an  hour  on  the  level, 
and  at  double  that  (one  may  not  be  too  exact) 
in  certain  circumstances,  and  that  in  such  a 
fight  as  I  am  going  to  try  to  describe  here  the 
machines  were  moving  at  anything  between  these 
speeds.  If  you  can  bear  this  in  mind,  or  even 
realise  it — I  am  speaking  to  the  non-flying  reader 
— you  will  begin  to  understand  what  air  men-o-' 
war  work  is,  to  believe  what  a  pilot  once  said 
of  air  fighting:  "You  don't  get  time  to  think. 
If  you  stop  to  think,  you're  dead." 

When  the  Flight  of  half  a  dozen  scout  machines 
was  getting  ready  to  start  on  the  usual  "offensive 

68 


QUICK  WORK  69 

patrol"  over  Hunland,  one  of  the  pilots,  "Ricky- 
Ticky'^  by  popular  name,  had  some  slight 
trouble  with  his  engine.  It  was  nothing  much,  a 
mere  reluctance  to  start  up  easily,  and  since  he 
did  get  her  going  before  the  Flight  was  ready 
to  take  off  he  naturally  went  up  with  it.  He 
had  a  little  more  trouble  in  the  upward  climb  to 
gain  a  height  sufficient  for  the  patrol  when  it 
crossed  the  line  to  stand  the  usual  respectable 
chance  of  successfully  dodging  the  usual  Archie 
shells.  Ricky,  however,  managed  to  nurse  her 
up  well  enough  to  keep  his  place  in  the  for- 
mation, and  was  still  in  place  when  they  started 
across  the  lines.  Before  they  were  far  over 
Hunland  he  knew  that  his  engine  was  missing 
again  occasionally  and  was  not  pulling  as  she 
ought  to,  and  from  a  glance  at  his  indicators  and 
a  figuring  of  speed,  height,  and  engine  revolutions 
was  fairly  certain  that  he  was  going  almost 
full  out  to  keep  up  with  the  other  machines, 
which  were  flying  easily  and  well  within  their 
speed. 

This  was  where  he  would  perhaps  have  been 
wise  to  have  thrown  up  and  returned  to  his 
'drome.  He  hung  on  in  the  hope  that  the 
engine  would  pick  up  again — as  engines  have  an 
unaccountable  way  of  doing — and  even  when  he 
found  himself  dropping  back  out  of  place  in  the 
formation  he  still  stuck  to  it  and  followed  on. 
He  knew  the  risk  of  this,  knew  that  the  straggler, 
the  lame  duck,  the  unsupported  machine,  is  just 
exactly  what  the  Hun  flyer  is  always  on  the 
look  out  for;   knew,  too,  that  his  Flight  Com- 


70  QUICK  WORK 

mander  before  they  had  started  had  warned  him 
(seeing  the  trouble  he  was  having  to  start  up) 
that  if  he  had  any  bother  in  the  air  or  could  not 
keep  place  in  the  formation  to  pull  out  and 
return.  Altogether,  then,  the  trouble  that 
swooped  down  on  him  was  his  own  fault,  and  you 
can  blame  him  for  it  if  you  like.  But  if  you  do 
you'll  have  to  blame  a  good  many  other  pilots 
who  carry  on,  and,  in  spite  of  the  risk,  do  their 
best  to  put  through  the  job  they  are  on.  He 
finally  decided — he  looked  at  the  clock  fixed  in 
front  of  him  to  set  a  time  and  found  it  showed 
just  over  one  minute  to  twelve — in  one  minute 
at  f noon  exactly,  if  his  engine  had  not  steadied 
down  to  work,  he  would  turn  back  for  home. 

At  that  precise  moment — and  this  was  the  first 
warning  he  had  that  there  were  Huns  about — 
he  heard  a  ferocious  rattle  of  machine-gun  j5re, 
and  got  a  glimpse  of  streaking  flame  and  smoke 
from  the  tracer  bullets  whipping  past  him.  The 
Huns,  three  of  them  and  all  fast  fighting  scouts, 
had  seen  him  coming,  had  probably  watched  him 
drop  back  out  of  place  in  the  Flight,  had  kept 
carefully  between  him  and  the  sun  so  that  his 
glances  round  and  back  had  failed  to  spot  them 
in  the  glare,  and  had  then  dived  headlong  on 
him,  firing  as  they  came.  They  were  coming 
down  on  him  from  astern  and  on  his  right  side, 
or,  as  the  Navals  would  put  it,  on  his  starboard 
quarter,  and  they  were  perhaps  a  hundred  to  a 
hundred  and  fifty  yards  off  when  Ricky  first 
looked  round  and  saw  them. 

His  first  and  most  natural  impulse  was  to  get 


QUICK  WORK  71 

clear  of  the  bullets  that  were  spitting  round  and 
over  him,  and  in  two  swift  motions  he  had  opened 
his  engine  full  out  and  thrust  his  nose  a  little 
down  and  was  off  full  pelt.  Promptly  the  three 
astern  swung  a  little,  opened  out  as  they  wheeled, 
dropped  their  noses,  and  came  after  Ricky,  still 
a  little  above  him,  and  so  fairly  astern  that  only 
the  centre  one  could  keep  a  sustained  accurate 
fire  on  him.  (A  scout's  gun  being  fixed  and 
shooting  between  the  blades  of  the  propeller — 
gun  and  engine  being  synchronised  so  as  to 
allow  the  bullet  to  pass  out  as  the  blade  is  clear 
of  the  muzzle — means  that  the  machine  itself 
must  be  aimed  at  the  target  for  the  bullets  to 
hit,  and  the  two  outer  machines  of  the  three 
could  only  so  aim  their  machines  by  pointing 
their  noses  to  converge  on  the  centre  one — a 
risky  manoeuvre  with  machines  travelling  at 
somewhere  about  a  hundred  miles  an  hour.) 

But  the  fire  of  that  centre  one  was  too  horribly 
close  for  endurance,  and  Ricky  knew  that 
although  his  being  end-on  made  him  the  smaller 
target,  it  also  made  his  machine  the  more  vul- 
nerable to  a  raking  shot  which,  piercing  him 
fore  and  aft,  could  not  well  fail  to  hit  petrol 
tank,  or  engine,  or  some  other  vital  spot.  He 
could  do  nothing  in  the  way  of  shooting  back, 
because,  being  a  single-seater  scout  himself,  his 
two  guns  were  trained  one  to  shoot  straight  for- 
ward through  the  propeller,  the  other,  mounted 
on  the  top  plane  on  a  curved  mount  which 
allowed  the  gun  to  be  grasped  by  the  handle 
above  his  head  and  pulled  back  and  down,  to 


72  QUICK  WORK 

shoot  from  direct  ahead  to  straight  up.  Neither 
could  shoot  backward. 

Ricky,  the  first  shock  of  his  surprise  over, 
had  gauged  the  situation,  and  this,  it  must  be 
admitted,  was  dangerous,  if  not  desperate.  He 
had  dropped  back  and  back  from  the  Flight, 
until  now  they  were  something  like  a  mile  ahead 
of  him.  A  mile,  it  is  true,  does  not  take  a  modern 
machine  long  to  cover,  but  then,  on  the  other 
hand,  neither  does  an  air  battle  take  long  to 
fight,  especially  with  odds  of  three  to  one.  With 
those  bullets  sheeting  past  him  and  already  be- 
ginning to  rip  and  crack  through  his  wings,  any 
second  might  see  the  end  of  Ricky.  It  was  no 
use  thinking  longer  of  running  away,  and  even 
a  straight-down  nose-dive  offered  no  chance  of 
escape,  both  because  the  Huns  could  nose-dive 
after  him  and  continue  to  keep  him  under  fire, 
and  because  he  was  well  over  Hunland,  and  the 
nearer  he  went  to  the  ground  the  better  target 
he  would  make  for  the  anti-aircraft  gunners 
below.     He  must  act,  and  act  quickly. 

A  thousand  feet  down  and  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away  was  a  little  patch  of  cloud.  Ricky 
swerved,  dipped,  and  drove  ''all  out"  for  it. 
He  was  into  it — 400  yards  remember — in  about 
the  time  it  takes  you  to  draw  three  level 
quiet  breaths,  and  had  flashed  through  it — 
five  or  six  hundred  feet  across  it  might  have 
been — in  a  couple  of  quick  heart-beats.  The 
Huns  followed  close,  and  in  that  half-dozen 
seconds  Ricky  had  something  between  fifty  and 
a  hundred  bullets  whizzing  and  ripping  past  and 


QUICK  WORK  73 

through  his  wings.  As  he  leaped  clear  of  the 
streaming  wisps  of  the  cloud^s  edge  he  threw  one 
look  behind  him  and  pulled  the  joy-stick  hard 
in  to  his  stomach.  Instantly  his  machine  reared 
and  swooped  up  in  the  loop  he  had  decided  on, 
up  and  over  and  round.  At  the  first  upward 
zoom  Ricky  had  pulled  down  the  handle  of  his 
top  gun  and  brought  it  into  instant  action.  The 
result  was  that  as  he  shot  up  and  over  in  a  perfect 
loop  the  centre  machine,  which  had  been  astern 
of  him,  flashed  under  and  straight  through  the 
stream  of  his  bullets. 

Ricky  whirled  down  in  the  curve  of  his  loop 
with  his  gun  still  shooting,  but,  now  he  had 
finished  his  loop  and  flattened  out,  shooting  up 
into  the  empty  air  while  his  enemy  hurtled 
straight  on  and  slightly  downward  ahead  of  him. 
Instantly  Ricky  threw  his  top  gun  out  of  action, 
and,  having  now  reversed  positions,  and  having 
his  enemy  ahead,  steadied  his  machine  to 
bring  his  bow  gun  sights  to  bear  on  her.  But 
before  he  could  fire  he  saw  the  hostile's  right 
upper  plane  twist  upward,  saw  the  machine  spin 
side  on,  the  top  plane  rip  and  flare  fiercely  back 
and  upward,  the  lower  plane  buckle  and  break, 
and  the  machine,  turning  over  and  over,  plunge 
down  and  out  of  his  sight.  One  of  his  bullets 
evidently  had  cut  some  bracing  wires  or  stays, 
and  the  wing  had  given  to  the  strain  upon  it. 

So  much  Ricky  just  had  time  to  think,  but 
immediately  found  himself  in  a  fresh  danger. 
The  two  remaining  hostiles  had  flashed  past  him 
at  the  same  time  as  the  centre  one,  while  he 


74  QUICK  WORK 

threw  his  loop  over  it,  but,  realising  apparently 
on  the  instant  what  his  manoeuvre  was,  they 
both  swung  out  and  round  while  he  passed  in 
his  loop  over  the  centre  machine.  It  was  smart 
work  on  the  part  of  the  two  flanking  hostiles. 
They  must  have  instantly  divined  Ricky's  dodge 
to  get  astern  of  them  all,  and  their  immediate 
circle  out  and  round  counteracted  it,  and  as  he 
came  out  of  his  loop  brought  them  circling  in 
again  on  him.  For  an  instant  Ricky  was  so 
concentrated  on  the  centre  machine  that  he 
forgot  the  two  others;  but,  the  centre  one 
down  and  out,  he  was  suddenly  roused  to  the 
fresh  danger  by  two  following  short  bursts 
of  fire  which  flashed  and  flamed  athwart  him, 
and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  other  two  closing 
in  again  astern  of  him  and  '^sitting  on  his 
tail.'' 

Both  were  firing  as  they  came,  and  again 
Ricky  felt  the  sharp  rip  and  crack  of  explosive 
bullets  striking  somewhere  on  his  machine,  and 
an  instant  later  knew  the  two  were  following 
him  and  hailing  lead  upon  him.  He  cursed 
savagely.  He  had  downed  one  enemy,  but  here 
apparently  he  was  little  if  any  better  off  with 
two  intact  enemies  in  the  worst  possible  position 
for  him,  *^on  his  tail,"  and  both  shooting  their 
hardest. 

A  quick  glance  ahead  showed  him  the  white 
glint  of  light  on  the  wheeling  wings  of  his  Flight, 
attracted  by  the  sight  of  his  battle,  circling 
and  racing  to  join  the  fight.  But,  fast  and  all 
as  they  came,  the  fight  was  likely  to  be  over 


QUICK  WORK  75 

before  they  could  arrive,  and  with  the  crack  and 
snap  of  bullets  about  him  and  his  own  two  guns 
powerless  to  bear  on  the  enemy,  it  looked  un- 
comfortably like  odds  on  the  fight  ending  against 
him.  Another  loop  they  would  expect  and 
follow  over — ^and  the  bullets  were  crippling  him 
every  instant. 

Savagely  he  threw  his  controls  over,  and  his 
machine  slashed  out  and  down  to  the  right  in 
a  slicing  two-hundred-foot  side-slip.  The  right- 
hand  machine  whirled  past  him  so  close  that  he 
saw  every  detail  of  the  pilot's  dress — the  fur- 
fringed  helmet,  dark  goggles,  black  sweater. 
He  caught  his  machine  out  of  her  downward 
slide,  drove  her  ahead,  steadied  her,  and  brought 
his  sights  to  bear  on  the  enemy  a  scant  twenty 
yards  ahead,  and  poured  a  long  burst  of  fire  into 
her.  He  saw  the  streaking  flashes  of  his  bullets 
pouring  about  and  over  her  top  planes,  dipped 
his  muzzle  a  shade,  and  saw  the  bullets  break 
and  play  on  and  about  the  pilot  and  fuselage. 
Then  came  a  leaping  flame  and  a  spurt  of  black 
smoke  whirling  out  from  her;  Ricky  had  a 
momentary  glimpse  of  the  pilot's  agonised 
expression  as  he  lifted  and  glanced  wildly 
round,  and  next  instant  had  only  in  his  sight 
a  trailing  black  plume  of  smoke  and  the  gleam 
of  a  white  underbody  as  the  enemy  nose-dived 
down  in  a  last  desperate  attempt  to  make  a 
landing  before  his  machine  dissolved  in  flames 
about  him. 

With  a  sudden  burst  of  exultation  Ricky 
realised  his  changed  position.     A  minute  before 


76  QUICK  WORK 

he  was  in  the  last  and  utmost  desperate  straits, 
three  fast  and  well-armed  adversaries  against 
his  single  hand.  Now,  with  two  down,  it  was 
man  to  man — no,  if  he  wished,  it  was  all  over, 
because  the  third  hostile  had  swung  left,  had  her 
nose  down,  and  was  ^'hare-ing'^  for  home  and 
down  towards  the  covering  fire  of  the  German 
anti-aircraft  batteries.  Already  she  was  two 
to  three  hundred  yards  away,  and  the  first  Ger- 
man Archie  soared  up  and  burst  with  a  rending 
'*Ar-r-rgh"  well  astern  of  him. 

But  Ricky's  blood  was  up  and  singing  songs 
of  triumph  in  his  ears.  Two  out  of  three 
downed;  better  make  a  clean  job  of  it  and  bag 
the  lot.  His  nose  dipped  and  his  tail  flicked  up, 
and  he  went  roaring  down,  full  out,  after  his 
last  Hun.  A  rapid  crackle  of  one  machine-gun 
after  another  struck  his  ear  before  ever  he  had 
the  last  hostile  fully  centred  in  his  sights.  Ricky 
knew  that  at  last  the  Flight  had  arrived  and  were 
joining  in  the  fight.  But  he  paid  no  heed  to 
them;  his  enemy  was  in  the  ring  of  his  sight 
now,  so  with  his  machine  hurling  down  at  the 
limit  of  speed  of  a  falling  body  plus  all  the  pull 
of  a  hundred  and  odd  horse-power,  the  whole 
fabric  quivering  and  vibrating  under  him, 
the  wind  roaring  past  and  in  his  ears,  Ricky 
snuggled  closer  in  his  seat,  waited  till  his  target 
was  fully  and  exactly  centred  in  his  sights,  and 
poured  in  a  long,  clattering  burst  of  fire.  The 
hostile's  slanting  nose-dive  swerved  into  a  spin, 
an  uncontrolled  side-to-side  plunge,  back  again 
into  a  spinning  dive  that  ended  in  a  straight- 


QUICK  WORK  77 

downward  rush  and  a  crash  end-on  into  the 
ground. 

Whether  it  was  Ricky  or  some  other  machine  of 
the  FHght  that  got  this  last  hostile  will  never  be 
known.  Ricky  himself  officially  reported  having 
crashed  two,  but  declined  to  claim  the  third  as 
his.  On  the  other  hand,  the  rest  of  the  Flight, 
after  and  always,  with  enthusiastic  unanimity, 
insisted  that  she  was  Ricky's  very  own,  that  he 
had  outplayed,  outfought,  and  killed  three 
Huns  in  single  combat  with  them — one  down 
and  t'other  come  on.  If  Ricky  himself  could 
not  fairly  and  honestly  claim  all  rights  to  the 
last  Hun,  the  Flight  did  for  him. 

^'  Three!  ^'  they  said  vociferously  in  mess  that 
night,  and  would  brook  no  modest  doubts 
from  him.  And  to  silence  all  doubts  the  Squad- 
ron poet  composed  a  song  which  was  sung  by  the 
mess  with  a  fervour  and  a  generous  slurring  over 
of  faulty  metre  (a  word  the  poet  didn't  even 
know  the  meaning  of)  that  might  have  stirred  the 
blood  of  a  conscientious  objector.  It  was  entitled, 
''Three  Huns  Sat  on  his  Tail,"  and  was  sung  to 
the  tune  of  ''There  were  Three  Crows  Sat  on  a 
Tree,"  or,  as  the  uninitiated  may  prefer,  "When 
Johnny  Comes  Marching  Home,"  and  it  detailed 
the  destruction  of  the  Huns  one  by  one,  verse  by 
verse. 

When  I  tell  you  it  was  sung  chanty  fashion, 
with  the  first,  second,  and  last  lines  chorused 
by  the  mess,  I  can  leave  you  to  imagine  the  loud- 
pedal,  full,  fortissimo  effect  of  the  "Hurrahs," 
and  (helped  out  with  feet,  with  fists,  spoons, 


78  QUICK  WORK  / 

and  anything  else  handy  to  resound  upon  the 
table)  of  the  final  rolling  ^'Cr-r-r-ash."      / 

There  were  three  Huns  sat  on  his  tail,        I 
-^  Hurrah,  hurrah!  ' 

But  he  looped  over  one  and  gave  him  "Hail 

Colum-bi-al" 
He  shot  up  the  Hun  so  full  of  lead 
That  before  he  knew  he  was  hit  he  was  dead, 
And  our  Archie  look-out  reporting  said: 

One!— CR-R-R-ASH! 

But  all  this  was  later,  and  is  going  a  little 
ahead  of  the  story.  As  the  last  Hun  went  reeling 
down,  Ricky,  in  the  official  language  of  the 
combat  reports,  *' rejoined  formation  and  con- 
tinued the  patrol/*  He  pulled  the  stick  towards 
him  and  rose  buoyantly,  knowing  that  he  was 
holed  over  and  over  again,  that  bullets,  and 
explosive  bullets  at  that,  had  ripped  and  rent 
and  torn  the  fabrics  of  his  machine,  possibly  had 
cut  away  some  strut  or  stay  or  part  of  the  frame. 
But  his  engine  appeared  to  be  all  right  again, 
had  never  misbehaved  a  moment  during  the 
fight,  was  running  now  full  power  and  blast; 
his  planes  swept  smooth  and  steady  along  the 
wind  levels,  his  controls  answered  exactly  to  his 
tender  questioning  touch.  He  had  won  out.  He 
was  safe,  barring  accident,  to  land  back  in  his 
own  'drome;  and  there  were  two  if  not  three 
Huns  down  on  his  brazen  own  within  the  last 
— how  long? 

At  the  moment  of  his  upward  zoom  on  the 
conclusion  of  the  fight  he  glanced  at  his  clock, 
could  hardly  believe  what  it  told  him,  was  only 


QUICK  WORK  79 

convinced  when  he  recalled  that  promise  to 
himself  to  turn  back  at  the  end  of  that  minute, 
and  had  his  behef  confirmed  by  the  Flight's 
count  of  the  time  between  their  first  turning  back 
and  their  covering  the  distance  to  join  him.  His 
clock  marked  exactly  noon.  The  whole  fight, 
from  the  firing  of  the  first  shot  to  the  falling  away 
of  the  last  Hun,  had  taken  bare  seconds  over  the 
one  minute. 

That  pilot  was  right;    in  air.  fighting  ''you 
don't  get  time  to  think." 


Quick  is  the  word  and  quick  is  the  deed 

If  you  would  live  in  the  air-fight  game; 
Speed,  give  'em  speed,  and  a-top  of  it — speed! 

(Man  or  machine  exactly  the  same). 
Think  and  stunt,  move,  shoot,  quickly;  or  die, 

Fight  quick  or  die  quick;  when  all  is  said, 
There  are  two  kinds  of  fighters  who  fly. 

Only  two  kinds — the  quick,  and  the  dead. 


vn 

THE  AIR  MASTERS 

It  is  hardly  known  to  the  general  public — which 
seems  a  pity — that  the  Navy  has,  working  on 
the  Western  Front,  some  Air  Squadrons  who 
fly  only  over  the  land  and  have  not  so  much 
as  seen  the  sea,  except  by  chance  or  from  a 
long  distance,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end. 
They  have  carried  into  their  shore-going  lives  a 
number  of  Navy  ways,  like  the  curt  '^  Thank 
God"  grace  at  the  end  of  a  meal,  or  the  mustering 
of  all  hands  for  ^'Divisions"  (Navalese  for 
'^ Parade")  in  the  morning,  marking  off  the 
time  by  so  many  '^  bells,"  hoisting  and  lowering 
at  sunrise  and  sunset  the  white  ensign  flown 
on  a  flagstaff  on  the  'drome;  they  stick  to  their 
Navy  ratings  of  petty  officers  and  sub-lieutenants 
and  so  on,  and  interlard  their  speech  more  or 
less  with  Navy  lingo — a  very  useful  and  expres- 
sive one,  by  the  way,  in  describing  air  manoeuvres 
— but  otherwise  carry  out  their  patrols  and  air 
work  with,  and  on  about  the  same  lines  as, 
the  R.F.C. 

Naval    Number    Something    is    a    "fighting 
scout"   Squadron,   which  means  that  its  sole 

80 


THE  AIR  MASTERS  81 

occupation  in  life  is  to  hunt  for  trouble,  to  find 
and  fight,  ''sink,  burn  or  destroy"  Huns.  At 
first  thought  it  may  seem  to  the  Army  which 
fights  ''on  the  floor"  that  this  job  of  a  fighting 
machine  is  one  which  need  interest  no  one  out- 
side the  Air  Service,  that  it  is  airman  fighting 
against  airman,  and  that,  except  from  a  point 
of  mere  sporting  interest,  the  results  of  these 
fights  don't  concern  or  affect  the  rest  of  the 
Army,  that  the  war  would  roll  on  just  the  same 
for  them  whichever  side  had  the  upper  hand 
in  the  air  fighting.  Those  who  think  so  are 
very  far  wrong,  because  it  is  on  the  fighters  pure 
and  simple  that  the  air  mastery  depends.  Air 
work  is  a  business,  a  highly  complicated,  com- 
pletely organised  and  efficient  business,  and 
one  bit  of  it  has  to  dovetail  into  another  just 
as  the  Army's  does.  The  machines  which  spot 
for  our  guns,  and  direct  the  shooting  of  our 
batteries  to  destroy  enemy  batteries  which 
would  otherwise  destroy  our  trenches  and  our 
men  in  them;  the  reconnaissance  machines 
which  fly  up  and  down  Hunland  all  day  and 
bring  back  reports  of  the  movements  of  troops 
and  trains  and  the  concentration  or  removal 
of  forces,  and  generally  do  work  of  which  full 
and  true  value  is  known  only  to  those  Heads 
running  the  war;  the  photographing  machines 
which  bring  back  thousands  of  pictures  of  all 
sorts — the  fine  knows  a  few,  a  very  few,  of  these, 
and  their  officers  study  very  attentively  the 
trench  photos  before  they  go  over  the  top  in  a 
raid  or  an  attack,  and  so  learn  exactly  how,  why, 


82  THE  AIR  MASTERS 

and  where  they  are  to  go;  the  bombing  machines 
which  blow  up  dumps  of  ammunition  destined 
for  the  destruction  of  trenches  and  men,  derail 
trains  bringing  up  reinforcements  or  ammuni- 
tion to  the  Hun  firing  line,  knock  about  the 
'dromes  and  the  machines  which  otherwise 
would  be  gun-spotting,  reconnoitring,  and  bomb- 
ing over  our  lines — and  perhaps  some  day  one 
may  tell  just  how  many  Gotha  raids  have  been 
upset,  and  cancelled  by  our  bomb-raids  on  a 
Hun  'drome — all  these  various  working  machines 
depend  entirely  for  their  existence  and  freedom 
to  do  their  work  on  the  success  of  the  fighting 
machines.  The  working  machines  carry  guns, 
and  fight  when  they  have  to,  but  the  single- 
seater  fighting  machines  are  out  for  fight  all  the 
time,  out  to  destroy  enemy  fighters,  or  to  put 
out  of  action  any  enemy  working  machine  they 
can  come  across. 

The  struggle  for  the  air  mastery  never  ceases, 
and  although  it  may  never  be  absolute  and 
complete,  because  the  air  is  a  big  place  to  sweep 
quite  clear  and  clean,  the  fact  that  scores  of  our 
machines  spend  all  their  fljdng  hours  anywhere 
over  Hunland  from  the  front  lines  to  fifty  miles 
and  more  behind  them  for  every  one  Hun  who 
flies  over  ours  and,  after  a  cruise  of  some  minutes, 
races  back  again,  is  fairly  good  evidence  of  who 
holds  the  whip  hand  in  the  air. 

All  this  introduction  is  necessary  to  explain 
properly  the  importance  of  the  fighting  squad- 
rons' job,  and  why  the  winning  of  their  fights 
is  of  such  concern  to  every  man  in  the  Army, 


THE  AIR  MASTERS  83 

and  to  every  man,  woman,  and  child  interested  in 
any  man  in  the  Army.  It  also  serves  to  explain 
why  it  was  that  three  machines  of  Naval  Number 
Something  *4eapt  into  the  air"  in  a  most  tre- 
mendous hurry-skurry,  the  pilots  finishing 
the  buckhng  of  their  coats  (one  going  without 
a  coat  indeed)  and  putting  on  goggles  after  they 
had  risen,  when  the  look-out  at  the  Squadron 
telescope  reported  that  there  were  four  Hun 
two-seater  machines  circHng  round  at  about 
10,000  or  12,000  feet  and  just  far  enough  over 
our  front  lines  to  look  suspiciously  like  being  on 
a  gun-spotting  or  *^Art.-Ob."  bit  of  business. 

That  such  a  performance  should  be  taking 
place  almost  within  sight  of  their  own  'drome 
doorstep  naturally  annoyed  the  Navals,  and  led 
to  the  immediate  and  hurried  steps  which  took 
the  three  machines  and  pilots  who  were  first  ready 
into  the  air  in  *'two  shakes  of  the  jib-sheet." 
The  three  men  were  all  veteran  fighters,  and 
their  machines  three  of  the  Squadron's  best,  and 
if  the  four  Huns  had  known  their  reputations  and 
calibre  it  is  doubtful  if  they  would  have  dared 
to  hang  about  and  carry  on  with  their  work  as 
they  did.  There  was  "Mel"  Byrne,  a  big  man 
with  a  D.S.C.  and  a  Croix  de  Guerre  ribbon  on  his 
breast,  and  a  score  of  crashed  Huns  notched  to  his 
credit,  flying  his  '^Kangaroo";  ''Rip"  Winkle, 
who  had  once  met  and  attacked,  single-handed, 
seven  Huns,  shot  down  and  crashed  three  hand- 
running  and  chased  the  others  headlong  as  far 
over  Hunland  as  his  petrol  would  take  him: 
he  was  in  his  "Minnenwerfer";  and  the  "next 


84  THE  AIR  MASTERS 

astern''  was  the  '''Un-settler"  flown  by  ''Ten- 
franc"  or  ''Frankie"  Jones,  a  youngster  of — 
well,  officially,  twenty,  so  called,  not  because  he 
was  in  his  baptism  named  Frank,  but  because 
of  a  bet  he  had  made  with  another  Naval  Squad- 
ron as  to  which  Squadron  would  *' crash" 
the  most  Huns  by  a  stated  date.  He  was 
desperately  keen  to  win  his  often-referred-to 
wager — so  much  so  in  fact  that  the  other  pilots 
chaffed  him  constantly  on  it  and  swore  he  would 
risk  more  to  win  his  bet  than  he  would  to  win 
aV.C. 

The  three  wasted  no  time  in  the  usual  circling 
climb  over  the  'drome,  but  drove  up  full  tilt  and 
straight  for  the  four  dots  in  the  sky.  They 
climbed  as  they  went,  and  since  the  Trichord 
type  is  rather  famous  for  its  climbing  powers 
they  made  pretty  good  height  as  they  went. 
''Mel,"  in  the  lead,  was  in  a  desperate  hurry  to 
interrupt  the  enemy's  artillery-spotting  work,  so 
gave  away  the  advantage  of  height  and  sacrificed 
the  greater  climb  they  could  attain  with  a  lesser 
speed  to  the  urgent  haste  and  need  of  getting 
in  touch  with  the  enemy.  They  were  still  a 
good  couple  of  thousand  feet  below  when  they 
came  to  within  half  a  mile  of  the  Huns,  and 
the  "Kangaroo,"  with  the  others  following  close, 
tilted  steeply  up  and  began  to  show  what  a 
Trichord  really  could  do  if  it  were  asked  of  her. 
They  were  gaining  height  so  rapidly  that  the 
Huns  evidently  did  not  like  it,  and  two  of  them 
turned  out  and  drove  over  to  a  position  above 
the  Trichords.     The  three  paid  no  attention  to 


THE  AIR  MASTERS  85 

them,  but  climbed  steeply,  swinging  in  towards 
the  other  two  machines  which,  since  they  still 
continued  their  circling,  were  probably  con- 
tinuing their  ''shoot"  and  signalling  back  to 
their  guns.  But  the  Trichords  were  too  threaten- 
ing to  be  left  longer  alone.  The  two  turned  and 
flew  east,  with  the  Trichords  in  hot  pursuit, 
slanted  round,  and  presently  were  joined  by 
their  friends.  Then  the  four  plunged  on  the 
three  in  an  almost  vertical  dive.  Because  the 
fighting  scout  only  shoots  straight  forward  out 
of  a  fixed  gun,  its  bows  must  be  pointing  straight 
at  a  target  before  it  can  fire,  and  the  Huns' 
straight-down  dive  was  meant  to  catch  the 
Trichords  at  a  disadvantage,  since  it  was  hardly 
to  be  expected  they  could  stand  on  their  tails 
to  shoot  straight  up  in  the  air.  But  this  is 
almost  what  they  did.  All  three,  going  ''full 
out,"  turned  their  noses  abruptly  up  and  opened 
fire.  The  Huns  turned  their  dive  off  into  an 
upward  "zoom"  and  a  circling  bank  which 
allowed  their  observers  to  point  their  guns  over 
and  down  at  the  Trichords,  and  fire  a  number 
of  rounds. 

But  because  it  was  now  perfectly  obvious  that 
the  Trichords  had  attained  their  first  and  most 
urgent  object,  the  breaking-off  of  the  Huns* 
"shoot"  and  spotting  for  their  guns,  they  could 
now  proceed  to  the  next  desirable  part  of  the 
programme — the  destruction  of  the  four  Huns  by 
methods  which  would  level  up  the  fighting 
chances  a  little.  The  "Kangaroo"  shot  out 
eastward  and  began  to  climb  steeply,  Mel  ex- 


86  THE  AIR  MASTERS 

pecting  that  the  other  two  would  follow  his 
tactics,  get  between  the  enemy  and  their  lines, 
and  climb  to  or  above  their  height.  But  the 
'''Un-settler''  was  in  trouble  of  some  sort,  and 
after  firing  a  coloured  light  as  a  signal  to  the 
leader  meaning  ^^Out  of  action;  am  returning 
home,"  slid  off  west  in  a  long  glide  with  her 
engine  shut  off.  Rip  Winkle,  on  the  ^^Minnen- 
werfer,'^  followed  the  ''Kangaroo"  east  a  few 
hundred  yards  and  began  to  climb.  The  four 
Huns  at  first  tried  to  keep  above  the  level  of 
the  two,  but  it  was  quickly  evident  that  the 
Trichords  were  outclimbing  them  hand  over 
fist,  were  going  up  in  a  most  amazing  lift,  in 
''a  spiral  about  as  steep  as  a  Tube  stair."  The 
Huns  didn't  like  the  look  of  things  and  suddenly 
turned  for  their  lines,  dropped  their  noses,  and 
went  off  at  full  speed.  The  two  Trichords  cut 
slanting  across  to  connect  with  them,  and  in 
half  a  minute  were  close  enough  to  open  fire. 
Two  against  four,  they  fought  a  fierce  running 
fight  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  the  ''Kan- 
garoo" swept  in  astern  of  a  Hun,  dived  and 
zoomed  up  under  him  and  poured  in  a  point- 
blank  burst  of  fire.  Mel  saw  his  bullets  hailing 
into  and  splintering  the  woodwork  of  the  under- 
body,  was  just  in  time  to  throttle  down  and 
check  the  "Kangaroo"  as  the  Hun's  tail  flicked 
up  and  he  went  sweeping  down  in  a  spinning 
nose  dive.  But  a  hard-pressed  pilot  will  some- 
times adopt  that  manoeuvre  deliberately  to 
throw  a  pursuer  out  of  position,  and,  knowing 
this,  Mel  followed  him  down  to  make  sure  he 


THE  AIR  MASTERS  87 

was  finished,  followed  him  watching  the  spin 
grow  wilder  and  wilder,  and  finish  in  a  splinter- 
ing crash  on  the  ground.  Mel  lifted  the  "Kan- 
garoo'' and  drove  off  full  pelt  after  the  others. 
Two  of  the  Huns  had  dived  and  were  skimming 
the  ground — they  were  well  over  Hunland  by 
now — and  the  other  one  and  the  "Minnen- 
werfer"  were  wheehng  and  circling  and  darting 
in  and  out  about  each  other  exactly  like  two 
boxers  sparring  for  an  opening,  their  machine- 
guns  rattling  rapidly  as  either  pilot  or  gunner 
got  his  sights  on  the  target.  Then  when  he 
was  almost  close  enough  to  join  in,  Mel  saw  a 
spurt  of  flame  and  a  gust  of  smoke  lick  out 
from  the  fuselage  of  the  Hun.  The  machine 
lurched,  recovered,  and  dipped  over  to  dive 
down;  the  "  Minnenwerfer''  leaped  in  to  give 
her  the  death-blow,  and  under  the  fresh  hail  of 
bullets  the  Hun  plunged  steeply,  with  smoke 
and  flame  pouring  up  from  the  machine's  body. 
The  wind  drove  the  flames  aft,  and  in  two 
seconds  she  was  enveloped  in  them,  became  a 
roaring  bonfire,  a  live  torch  hurtling  to  the 
ground.  The  Trichords  saw  her  observer 
scramble  from  his  cockpit,  balance  an  instant 
on  the  flaming  body,  throw  his  hands  up  and  leap 
out  into  the  empty  air,  and  go  twisting  and 
whirling  down  to  earth. 

A  Hun  Archie  shell  screamed  up  past  the 
hovering  Trichords  and  burst  over  their  heads, 
and  others  followed  in  quick  succession  as  the 
two  turned  and  began  to  climb  in  twisting  and 
erratic  curves  designed  to  upset  the  gunners' 


88  THE  AIR  MASTERS 

aim.  They  worked  east  as  they  rose  and  were 
almost  over  the  lines  when  Mel,  in  one  of  his 
circlings,  caught  sight  of  a  big  formation  flying 
towards  them  from  the  west.  He  steadied  his 
machine  and  took  another  long  look,  and  in  a 
moment  saw  they  were  Huns,  counted  them 
and  found  fourteen,  most  of  them  scouts,  some 
of  them  two-seaters  of  a  type  that  Mel  knew  as 
one  commonly  used  by  the  Huns  on  the  infre- 
quent occasions  they  get  a  chance  to  do  artillery- 
observing  work  on  our  Hues.  Both  Mel  and 
Rip  worked  out  the  situation  on  much  the 
same  lines,  that  the  Huns  had  some  important 
''shoot"  on,  were  specially  keen  to  do  some 
observing  for  their  guns,  had  sent  the  four 
two-seaters  first  and  were  following  them  up 
with  other  two-seater  observing-machines  pro- 
tected by  a  strong  escort  of  fighters.  Mel 
looked  round  for  any  sight  of  a  formation  of 
ours  that  might  be  ready  to  interrupt  the 
game,  saw  none,  and  selecting  the  correct 
coloured  light,  fired  a  signal  to  Rip  saying, 
'^I  am  going  to  attack."  Rip,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  was  so  certain  he  would  do  so  that  he  had 
already  commenced  to  climb  his  machine  to 
gain  a  favourable  position.  The  fourteen  were 
at  some  17,000  feet,  several  thousand  above  the 
Trichords,  but  here  the  great  cHmbing  power 
of  the  Trichords  stood  to  them,  and  they  went 
up  and  up,  in  swift  turn  on  turn  that  brought 
them  almost  to  a  level  with  the  enemy  before 
the  Huns  were  within  shooting  distance.  They 
came  on  with  the  scouts  flying  in  a  wedge-shaped 


THE  AIR  MASTERS  89 

formation,    and    the    observing-machines    pro- 
tected and  covered  inside  the  wedge. 

The  odds  were  so  hugely  in  their  favour  that 
it  was  clear  they  never  dreamed  the  two  would 
attack  their  fourteen,  and  they  drove  straight 
forward  to  cross  above  the  lines.  But  the 
Trichords  wakened  them  quickly  and  rudely. 
Each  wheeled  out  wide  and  clear  of  the  forma- 
tion, closed  in  astern  of  it  to  either  side,  lifted 
sharply  to  pick  up  an  extra  bit  of  useful  height, 
dived,  and  came  hurtling,  engines  going  full 
out  and  guns  shooting  their  hardest,  arrow- 
straight  at  the  two-seaters  in  the  centre  of  the 
formation  below  them.  Owing  to  the  direction 
of  their  attack,  only  the  observers'  guns  on  the 
two-seaters  had  any  chance  to  bring  an  effective 
fire  to  bear.  It  is  true  that  the  few  scouts  in 
the  rear  of  the  wedge  did  fire  a  few  scattering 
shots.  But  scouts,  you  will  remember,  having 
only  fixed  guns  shooting  forward,  can  only  fire 
dead  ahead  in  the  direction  the  machine  is 
travelling,  must  aim  the  machine  to  hit  with 
the  gun.  This  means  that  the  target  presented 
to  them  of  the  Trichords  flashing  down  across 
their  bows  made  it  almost  impossible  for  them 
to  keep  a  Trichord  in  their  sights  for  more  than 
an  instant,  if  indeed  they  were  quick  enough 
to  get  an  aim  at  all.  Their  fire  went  wide  and 
harmless.  The  two-seaters  did  better,  and  both 
Trichords  had  jets  of  flaming  and  smoking 
tracer  bullets  spitting  past  them  as  they  came, 
had  several  hits  through  their  wings.  But 
they,  because  they  held  their  machines  steady 


90  THE  AIR  MASTERS 

and  plunged  down  straight  as  bullets  them- 
selves on  to  their  marks,  were  able  to  keep 
longer,  steadier  and  better  aim.  Mel,  as  he 
drove  down  close  to  his  target,  saw  the  gaping 
rents  his  bullets  were  slashing  in  the  fuselage 
near  the  observer,  saw  in  the  flashing  instant 
as  he  turned  and  hoicked  up  and  away,  the 
observer  collapse  and  fall  forward  with  his 
hands  hanging  over  the  edge  of  his  cockpit. 
Rip  saw  no  visible  signs  of  his  bullets,  but  saw 
the  visible  result  a  moment  after  he  also  had 
swirled  up,  made  a  long  fast  climbing  turn,  and 
steadied  his  machine  for  another  dive.  His 
Hun  dropped  out  of  the  formation  and  down 
in  long  twisting  curves,  apparently  out  of  control. 
He  had  no  time  to  watch  her  down,  because 
half  a  dozen  of  the  Hun  scouts,  deciding  evidently 
that  this  couple  of  enemies  deserved  serious 
consideration,  swung  out  and  began  to  climb 
after  the  Trichords.  Mel  promptly  dived  down 
past  them,  under  the  two-seaters  and  up  again 
under  one.  The  instant  he  had  her  in  the 
gun-sights  he  let  drive  and  saw  his  bullets 
breaking  and  tearing  into  her.  She  side-slipped 
wildly,  rolled  over,  and  Mel  watched  for  no 
more,  but  turned  his  attention  and  his  gun  to 
another  target. 

By  now  the  half-dozen  Hun  scouts  had  ob- 
tained height  enough  to  allow  them  to  jcopy 
the  Trichords'  dive-and-shoot  tactics,  and  down 
they  came  to  the  long  clattering  fire  of  their 
machine-guns.  Both  Trichords  had  a  score 
of  rents  in  wings  and  fuselage  and  tail  planes, 


THE  AIR  MASTERS  91 

but  by  a  mercy  no  shot  touched  a  vital  part. 
But  they  could  hardly  afford  to  risk  such  chances 
often,  so  went  back  to  their  plan  of  outclimbing 
and  diving  on  their  enemies.  Over  and  over 
again  they  did  this,  and  because  of  their  far 
superior  climb  were  able  to  keep  on  doing  it 
despite  every  effort  of  the  Huns.  Machine 
after  machine  they  sent  driving  down,  some 
being  uncertain  *^ crashes"  or  ''out-of -controls," 
but  most  of  them  being  at  least  definitely 
"driven  down"  since  they  did  not  rejoin  the 
fight,  and  were  forced  to  drop  to  such  landing- 
places  as  they  could  find.  There  were  some 
definite  "crashes,"  one  which  fell  wrapped  in 
roaring  flame  from  stem  to  stern;  another  on 
which  Rip  saw  his  bullets  slashing  in  long  tears 
across  the  starboard  wing,  the  splinters  fly 
from  a  couple  of  the  wing  struts  as  the  bullets 
sheared  them  through  in  splitting  ragged  frag- 
ments. In  an  instant  the  whole  upper  wing 
flared  upward  and  back  and  tore  off,  the  lower 
folded  back  to  the  body,  flapped  and  wrenched 
fiercely  as  the  machine  rolled  over  and  fell, 
gave  and  ripped  loose;  the  port  wings  followed, 
breaking  short  off  and  away,  leaving  the  machine 
to  drop  like  a  plummet  to  the  ground.  The 
third  certain  crash  was  in  the  later  stages  of 
the  fight.  The  constant  dive-and-zoom  of  the 
Trichords  had  the  desired  effect  of  driving 
the  Huns  lower  and  lower  each  time  in  their 
endeavour  to  gain  speed  and  avoid  the  fierce 
rushes  from  above.  Strive  as  they  would, 
they  could  not  gain  an  upper  position.     Some 


92  THE  AIR  MASTERS 

of  them  tried  to  fly  wide  and  climb  while  the 
Trichords  were  busy  with  the  remainder;  but 
one  or  other  of  the  two  leaped  out  after  them, 
hoicked  up  above  them,  drove  them  lower,  or 
shot  them  down,  in  repeated  dives. 

The  fight  that  had  started  a  good  17,000  feet 
up  and  close  over  the  trenches,  finished  at 
about  1,000  feet  and  six  to  Seven  miles  behind 
the  German  lines.  At  that  height,  the  pilot  of 
one  Hun  driven  into  a  side-slip  was  not  able 
to  recover  in  time  and  smashed  at  full  speed  into 
the  ground;  another  was  forced  so  low  that  he 
tried  to  land,  hit  a  hedge  and  turned  over;  a 
third  landed  twisting  sideways  and  at  least  tore 
a  wing  away. 

Then  the  two  Trichords,  splintered  and  rent 
and  gaping  with  explosive-bullet  wounds,  with 
their  ammunition  completely  expended,  their 
oil  and  petrol  tanks  running  dry,  turned  for 
home,  leaving  their  fourteen  enemies  scattered 
wide  and  low  in  the  air,  or  piled  in  splintered 
smoking  wreckage  along  the  ground  below  the 
line  of  their  flight.  The  fight  with  the  fourteen 
had  run  without  a  break  for  three-quarters  of 
an  hour. 

They  never  knew  exactly  how  many  victims 
they  had  '^sunk,  burned  or  destroyed.''  As 
they  stated  apologetically  in  the  ofiicial  '^Com- 
bat Report''  that  night:  ** Owing  to  the  close 
presence  of  other  active  E.A.^  driven-down 
machines  could  not  be  watched  to  the  ground." 

*^Frankie"   was  almost  more  annoyed  over 

*  E.A.  =  enemy  aircraft. 


THE  AIR  MASTERS  93 

this  than  he  was  over  having  had  to  pull  out  of 
the  action  with  a  dud  machine.  "If  we  could 
have  confirmed  all  your  crashes/'  he  remarked 
regretfully,  "it  would  have  been  such  a  jolly 
boost-up  to  the  Squadron's  tally — to  say  nothing 
of  my  wager/' 


VIII 

''THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN" 

The  infantry  who  watched  from  their  trenches 
one  afternoon  a  Flight  of  our  machines  droning 
over  high  above  their  heads  had  no  inkhng 
of  the  effect  that  FUght  was  going  to  have  on 
their,  the  infantry's,  well-being.  If  they  had 
known  that  the  work  of  this  Flight,  the  suc- 
cessful carrying  out  of  its  mission,  was  going 
to  make  all  the  difference  of  life  and  death 
to  them  they  might  have  been  more  interested 
in  it.  But  they  did  not  know  then,  and  do 
not  know  now,  and  what  is  perhaps  more 
surprising,  the  Flight  itself  never  fully  learned 
the  result  of  their  patrol,  because  air  work, 
so  divided  up  and  apparently  disconnected,  is 
really  a  systematic  whole,  and  only  those  whose 
work  it  is  to  collect  the  threads  and  twist  them 
together  know  properly  how  much  one  means 
to  the  other. 

This  FHght  was  out  on  a  photographic  patrol. 
They  had  been  ordered  to  proceed  to  a  certain 
spot  over  Hunland  and  take  a  series  of  pictures 
there,  and  they  did  so  and  returned  in  due 

94 


"THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN"  95 

course  with  nothing  more  unusual  about  the 
performance  than  rather  a  high  average  of 
attentions  paid  to  them  by  the  Hun  Archies. 
The  photos  were  developed  and  printed  as 
usual  within  a  few  minutes  of  the  machines 
touching  the  ground,  and  were  rushed  off  to 
their  normal  destinations.  The  photographers 
went  to  their  afternoon  tea  and  forgot  the 
matter. 

But  in  a  Nissen  hut  some  miles  from  the 
photographers'  'drome  afternoon  tea  was  held 
up,  while  several  people  pored  over  the  photos 
with  magnifying  glasses,  consulted  the  many 
maps  which  hung  round  the  walls  and  covered 
the  tables,  spoke  earnestly  into  telephones, 
and  dictated  urgent  notes.  One  result  of  all 
this  activity  was  that  Captain  Washburn,  or 
''Washie,''  and  his  Observer  Lieutenant  **Pip" 
Smith,  to  their  no  slight  annoyance,  were 
dragged  from  their  tea  and  pushed  off  on  an 
urgent  reconnaissance,  and  two  Flights  of  two 
fighting  scout  Squadrons  received  orders  to 
make  their  patrol  half  an  hour  before  the  time 
ordered.  Washie  and  his  Observer  were 
both  rather  specialists  in  reconnaissance  work, 
and  they  received  sufficient  of  a  hint  from  their 
Squadron  Commander  of  the  urgency  of  their 
job  to  wipe  out  their  regrets  of  a  lost  tea  and 
set  them  bustling  aboard  their  'bus  ''Pan" 
and  up  into  the  air. 

It  may  be  mentioned  briefly  here  that  three 
other  machines  went  out  on  the  same  recon- 
naissance.   One  was  shot  down  before  she  was 


96  "THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN" 

well  over  the  lines;  another  struggled  home 
with  serious  engine  trouble;  the  third  was 
so  harried  and  harassed  by  enemy  scouts  that 
she  was  lucky  to  be  able  to  fight  them  off  and 
get  home,  with  many  bullet  holes — and  no 
information.  Washie  and  Pip  did  better, 
although  they  too  had  a  lively  trip.  To  make 
sure  of  their  information  they  had  to  fly  rather 
low,  and  as  soon  as  they  began  to  near  the 
ground  which  they  wanted  to  examine  the 
Hun  Archies  became  most  unpleasantly  active. 
A  shell  fragment  came  up  through  the  fuselage 
with  an  ugly  rip^  and  another  smacked  bursting 
through  both  right  planes.  Later,  in  a  swift 
dive  down  to  about  a  thousand  feet,  ''Pan'' 
collected  another  assortment  of  souvenirs  from 
machine-guns  and  rifles,  but  Washie  climbed 
her  steeply  out  of  range,  while  Pip  busied 
himself  jotting  down  some  notes  of  the  exceed- 
ingly useful  information  the  low  dive  had 
brought  them. 

Then  six  Hun  fighting  scouts  arrived  at 
speed,  and  set  about  the  ''Pan"  in  an  earnest 
endeavour  to  crash  her  and  her  information 
together.  Pilot  and  Observer  had  a  moment's 
doubt  whether  to  fight  or  run.  They  had 
already  seen  enough  to  make  it  urgent  that 
they  should  get  their  information  back,  and 
yet  they  were  both  sure  there  was  more  to  see 
and  that  they  ought  to  see  it.  Their  doubts 
were  settled  by  the  Huns  diving  on  chem  one 
after  another,  with  machine-guns  going  their 
hardest.     The  first  went  down  past  them  spat- 


"THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN"  97 

tering  a  few  bullets  through  ^' Pan's  ^*  tail 
planes  as  he  passed.  The  second  Pip  caught 
fairly  with  a  short  burst  as  he  came  past,  and 
the  Hun  continued  his  dive,  fell  off  in  a  spin, 
and  ended  in  a  violent  crash  below.  The  third 
and  fourth  dived  on  ^'Pan"  from  the  right 
side  and  the  fifth  and  sixth  on  her  left.  Pip 
managed  to  wing  one  on  the  right,  and  sent 
him  fluttering  down  out  of  the  fight  more  or 
less  under  control,  and  Washie  stalled  the 
"Pan"  violently,  wrenched  her  roimd  in  an 
Immelman  turn,  and  plimged  straight  at  another 
Hun,  pumping  a  stream  of  bullets  into  him  from 
his  bow  gim.  The  Him  went  down  with  a 
torrent  of  black  smoke  gushing  from  his  fuselage. 
Washie  brought  "Pan"  hard  round  on  her 
heel  again,  opened  his  engine  full  out  and  ran 
for  it,  with  the  scattered  Huns  circling  and 
following  in  hard  pursuit.  Now  "Pan"  could 
travel  to  some  tune  when  she  was  really  asked 
— and  Washie  was  asking  her  now.  She 
was  a  good  machine  with  a  good  engine;  her 
pilot  knew  every  stitch  and  stay,  every  rod, 
bolt,  and  bearing  in  her  (and  his  rigger  and 
fitter  knew  that  he  knew  and  treated  him  and 
her  accordingly),  every  little  whim  in  her  that 
it  paid  him  to  humour,  every  little  trick  that 
would  get  an  extra  inch  of  speed  out  of  her. 
A  first-class  pilot  on  a  first-class  scout  ought 
to  overhaul  a  first-class  pilot  and  two-seater; 
but  either  the  "Pan"  or  her  pilot  was  a  shade 
more  first-class  than  the  pursuers,  and  Washie 
managed  to  keep  far  enough  ahead  to  be  out 


98  ''THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN" 

of  accurate  shooting  range  and  allow  Pip 
to  scrutinise  the  ground  carefully  as  they  flew. 
For  Washie  was  running  it  is  true,  but  was 
running  east  and  further  out  over  Hunland 
and  the  area  he  wanted  to  reconnoitre,  and 
Pip  was  still  picking  up  the  very  information 
they  had  been  sent  to  find. 

When  they  swung  north  the  three  pursuing 
scouts  by  cutting  the  corner  came  up  on  them 
again,  and  Pip  left  his  notes  to  stand  by 
his  gun.  There  was  some  brisk  shooting  in  the 
next  minute,  but  ''Pan"  broke  clear  with 
another  series  of  holes  spattered  through  her 
planes  and  fuselage,  and  Pip  with  the  calf 
of  his  leg  badly  holed  by  an  explosive  bullet, 
but  with  his  gun  still  rapping  out  short  bursts 
over  the  tail.  They  were  heading  for  home 
now,  and  Washie  signalled  Pip  to  speak 
to  him.  The  "Pan"  is  one  of  those  comfort- 
ably designed  machines  with  pilot's  and  ob- 
server's cockpits  so  close  together  that  the 
two  men  can  shout  in  each  other's  ear.  Pip 
leaned  over  and  Washie  yelled  at  him. 
"Seen  enough?  Got  all  you  want?"  "Yes." 
Pip  nodded  and  tapped  his  note-block.     "All 

I  want,"  he  yelled,  "and  then  some "  and 

he  wiped  his  hand  across  his  wound,  showed 
Washie  the  red  blood,  and  shouted  "Leg 
hit." 

That  settled  it.  Washie  lifted  the  "Pan" 
and  drove  her,  all  out,  for  home,  taking  the 
risk  of  some  bullet-holed  portion  of  her  frame 
failing  to  stand  the  strain  of  excessive  speed 


"THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN"  99 

rather  than  the  risk  of  going  easy  and  letting 
the  pursuers  close  for  another  fight  with  a 
wounded  observer  to  protect  his  tail. 

*' They've  dropped  off,"  shouted  Pip  a 
few  minutes  later.  Washie  swimg  and  be- 
gan to  lift  the  *'Pan"  in  climbing  turn  on  turn. 
^^Look  out,"  he  shouted  back,  ^4ook  out," 
and  stabbed  a  finger  out  to  point  a  group  of 
Huns  ahead  of  them  and  cutting  them  off  from 
the  lines.  Next  minute  Pip  in  his  turn  pointed 
to  another  group  coming  up  from  the  south 
well  above  them  and  heading  to  cut  them  off. 
Washie  swept  round,  dipped  his  nose  slightly, 
and  drove  at  the  first  group.  The  next  few 
minutes  were  unpleasantly  hot.  The  Huns 
strove  to  turn  them,  to  hold  them  from  break- 
ing through  or  past,  or  drive  them  lower  and 
lower,  while  Washie  twisted  and  dived  and 
zoomed  and  tried  to  dodge  through  or  under 
them,  with  his  gun  spitting  short  bursts 
every  time  he  caught  a  target  in  his  sights; 
and  Pip,  weakening  and  faint  from  pain 
and  loss  of  blood,  seconded  him  as  best  he 
could  with  rather  erratic  shooting. 

Affairs  were  looking  bad  for  them,  even  when 
**Pan"  ran  out  and  west  with  no  enemy  ahead 
but  with  four  of  them  clinging  to  her  flanks 
and  tail  and  pumping  quick  bursts  at  her;  but 
just  here  came  in  those  two  Flights  of  our 
fighting  scout  Squadrons — quite  accidentally 
so  far  as  they  knew,  actually  of  set  design  and 
as  part  of  the  ordered  scheme.  Six  streaking 
shapes  came  flashing  down  into  the  fight  with 


100        "THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN" 

their  machine-guns  pouring  long  bursts  of  fire 
ahead  of  them,  and  the  four  close-pursuing 
Huns  left  the  '^Pan'^  and  turned  to  join  up 
with  their  scattered  companions.  Washie 
left  them  to  fight  it  out,  and  turned  directly, 
and  very  thankfully,  for  his  Mrome. 

This  ends  the  tale  of  '^Pan,''  but  not  by  any 
means  of  the  result  of  her  work.  That  work, 
in  the  shape  of  jerky  but  significant  reports, 
was  being  dissected  in  the  map-hung  Nissen 
hut  even  before  Pip  had  reached  the  Casualty 
Clearing  Station;  and  ^^ Pan's ^'  work  (con- 
firming those  suspicious  photographs)  again  bred 
other  work,  more  urgent  telephone  talks,  and 
Immediate  orders.  The  stir  spread,  circle 
by  circle,  during  the  night,  and  before  day- 
break the  orders  had  borne  their  fruit,  and 
Flights — Artillery-Observing,  reconnoitring  and 
fighting-scout — were  lined  up  on  their  grounds 
waiting  the  moment  to  go;  the  Night  Bombers 
were  circling  in  from  their  second  and  third 
trips  of  destruction  on  lines  of  communication, 
railways  and  roads,  junctions  and  bridges, 
enemy  troops  and  transport  in  rest  or  on  the 
march,  ammunition  dumps  and  stores;  in  the 
front  lines  the  infantry  were  '^standing  to'* 
with  everything  ready  and  prepared  to  meet 
an  attack;  the  support  lines  were  filling  with 
reinforcements,  which  again  were  being  strength- 
ened by  battalions  tramping  up  the  roads 
from  the  rear;  in  the  gun  lines  the  lean  hungry 
muzzles  of  the  long-range  guns  were  poking 
and  peering  up  and  out  from  pit  and  emplace- 


''THE  ATTACK  WA.^  BROKEil^"' ;^' •  i '^Dl 

ment,  and  the  squat  howitzers  were  liftmg  or 
lowering  to  carefully  worked  out  angles. 

Before  daybreak  was  more  than  a  mere 
doubtful  smudge  of  lighter  colour  in  the  east, 
the  waiting  Flights  were  up  and  away  to  their 
appointed  beats,  and  the  first  guns  began  to 
drop  their  shells,  shooting  ''by  the  map'' 
(maps  made  or  corrected  from  air  photographs), 
or  on  previously  "registered''  lines. 

The  infantry  up  in  front  heard  the  machines 
hum  and  drone  overhead,  heard  the  rush  and 
howl  of  the  passing  shells,  the  thud  of  the  gims' 
reports,  the  thump  of  the  high-explosive's 
burst.  That,  for  a  time,  was  all.  For  a  good 
half-hour  there  was  nothing  more,  no  sign  of 
the  heavy  attack  they  had  been  warned  was 
coming.  Then  the  gunfire  began  to  grow 
heavier,  and  as  the  light  strengthened,  little 
dots  could  be  seen  circHng  and  wheeling  against 
the  sky  and  now  and  again  a  faint  and  far-off 
tat-tat-tat-tat  came  from  the  upper  air.  For  if 
it  was  quiet  and  inactive  on  the  ground,  it  was 
very  much  the  other  way  in  the  air.  Our 
reconnoitring  and  gun-spotting  machines  were 
quartering  the  ground  in  search  of  targets,  the 
scout  machines  sweeping  to  and  fro  above  them 
ready  to  drop  on  any  hostiles  which  tried  to 
interrupt  them  in  their  work.  The  hostiles 
tried  quickly  enough.  They  were  out  in  strength, 
and  they  did  their  best  to  drive  off  or  sink  our 
machines,  prevent  them  spying  out  the  land, 
or  directing  our  guns  on  the  massing  battalions. 
But  they  were  given  little  chance  to  interrupt. 


iQ2:;'"'ni|:  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN" 

Let  any  of  their  formations  dive  on  our  gun- 
spotters,  and  before  they  had  well  come  into 
action  down  plunged  our  scouts  after  them, 
engaged  them  fiercely,  drove  them  off,  or  drew 
them  away  in  desperate  defensive  fighting. 
Gradually  the  light  grew  until  the  reconnoitring 
machines  could  see  and  mark  the  points  of 
concentration,  the  masses  moving  into  position, 
the  filled  and  filling  trenches;  until  the  gun- 
spotters  could  mark  down  the  same  targets 
and  the  observers  place  their  positions  on  the 
map.  Then  their  wireless  began  to  whisper 
back  their  messages  from  the  air  to  the  Httle 
huts  and  shanties  back  at  Headquarters  and 
the  battery  positions;  and  then  .  .  . 

It  was  the  turn  of  the  guns  to  speak.  Up  in 
the  trenches  the  infantry  heard  the  separate 
thuds  and  thumps  quicken  and  close  and  run 
into  one  long  tremendous  roar,  heard  the  shells 
whistle  and  shriek  and  howl  and  moan  over 
their  heads,  saw  the  ground  far  out  in  front  of 
them  veil  in  twisting  smoke  wreaths,  spout  and 
leap  in  volcanoes  of  smoke,  earth,  and  fire. 
Battery  by  battery,  gun  by  gun,  the  artillery 
picked  up  and  swelled  the  chorus.  The  enemy 
machines  did  little  gun-spotting  over  our  posi- 
tions. If  one  or  two  sneaked  over  high  above 
the  line,  it  needed  no  more  than  the  first  few 
puffs  about  them  from  our  watching  Archies  to 
bring  some  of  our  scouts  plunging  on  them, 
turning  them  and  driving  after  them  in  head- 
long pursuit.  On  the  ground  men  knew  little 
or  nothing  of  all  this,  of  the  moves  and  counter- 


"THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN"        103 

moves,  the  dodging  and  fighting  high  over  their 
heads.  Their  attention  was  taken  up  by  the 
ferocious  fire  of  our  artillery,  and  in  waiting, 
waiting,  for  the  attack  which  never  came. 

Small  wonder  it  never  came.  The  guns 
caught  it  fairly,  as  it  was  developing  and  shaping 
and  settling  into  position  for  the  assault.  The 
attack  was  a  Uttle  late,  as  we  heard  after  from 
prisoners — perhaps  the  Night  Bombers,  and 
their  upsetting  of  road  and  rail  transport  time- 
tables with  high-explosive  bombs  and  showering 
machine-guns,  had  some  word  in  that  late- 
ness— and  our  fire  caught  it  in  the  act  of  deploy- 
ing. And  when  such  a  weight  of  guns  as  was 
massed  on  that  front  catches  solid  battalions 
on  the  roads,  or  troops  close-packed  in  trenches, 
the  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  the  men  they  catch. 
The  shells  rained,  deluged  down  on  every  trench, 
every  road  and  communication  way  within 
range,  searched  every  thicket  and  patch  of 
cover,  blasted  the  dead  woods  to  splintered 
wreckage,  smashed  in  dug-out  and  emplace- 
ment, broke  down  the  trenches  to  tumbled 
smoking  gutters,  gashed  and  seamed  and  pitted 
the  bare  earth  into  a  honeycombed  belt  of  death 
and  destruction.  The  high-explosive  broke  in, 
tore  open,  wrenched  apart  and  destroyed  the 
covering  trenches  and  dug-outs;  the  shrapnel 
raked  and  rent  the  tattered  fragments  of  bat- 
talions that  scattered  and  sought  shelter  in 
the  shell-holes  and  craters.  The  masses  that 
were  moving  up  to  push  home  the  intended 
attack  escaped  if  they  were  checked  and  stayed 


104        "THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN '^ 

in  time;  those  that  had  arrived  and  passed 
into  the  furnace  were  simply  and  utterly  des- 
troyed. 

For  a  good  three  hours  the  roaring  whirlwind 
of  gunfire  never  ceased,  or  even  slacked;  for 
three  hours  the  ground  for  a  full  mile  back 
from  the  Hun  front  line  rolled  billowing  clouds 
of  smoke,  quivered  and  shook  to  the  crash 
of  the  explosions,  spurted  and  boiled  and  eddied 
under  the  shells  '4ike  a  bubbling  porridge 
pot,"  as  one  gun-spotter  put  it,  was  scorched 
with  fire,  flayed  with  lead  and  steel,  drenched 
and  drowned  with  gas  fron  the  poison  shells. 
!  For  three  hours  the  circling  planes  above 
watched  for  sign  of  movement  below,  and  seeing 
any  such  sign  talked  back  by  wireless  to  the 
guns,  waited  and  watched  the  wrath  descend 
and  blot  out  the  movement  in  fresh  whirlwinds 
of  concentrated  fire;  while  further  back  a  full 
five  to  ten  miles  other  spotters  quartered  to 
and  fro  working  steadily,  sending  back  call 
after  call  to  our  Heavies,  and  silencing,  one  by 
one,  battery  after  battery  which  was  pounding 
our  trenches  with  long-range  fire.  And  for 
three  hours  the  infantry  crouched  half  deafened 
in  their  trenches,  listening  to  the  bellowing 
uproar,  watching  the  writhing  smoke-fog  which 
veiled  but  could  not  conceal  the  tearing  destruc- 
tion that  raged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  across 
and  across  the  swept  ground. 

Three  hours,  three  long  hours — and  one  can 
only  guess  how  long  they  were  to  the  maimed 
and  wounded,  cowering  and  squeezing  flat  to 


"THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN"        105 

earth  in  the  reeking  shell-holes,  gasping  for 
choked  breath  through  their  gas-masks,  quiver- 
ing under  the  fear  of  further  wounds  or  sudden 
and  violent  death;  how  bitterly  long  they 
were  to  the  German  commanders  and  generals 
watching  their  plans  destroyed,  their  attack 
wiped  out,  their  regiments  and  battalions  burnt 
away  in  our  consuming  fire. 

Our  despatches,  after  their  common  use  and 
wont,  put  the  matter  coldly,  dispassionately, 
and  with  under-  rather  than  over-statement  of 
facts —  "The  attack  was  broken  by  our  artillery 
fire." 

Broken!  Smashed  rather;  attack  and  at- 
tackers blotted  out,  annihilated,  utterly  and 
entirely. 

"By  our  artillery  fire.'^  The  truth  no  doubt, 
but  hardly  the  complete  truth,  since  it  said 
no  word  of  the  part  the  Air  Service  had  played. 
So  few  knew  what  had  been  brought  about  by 
the  work  of  a  photographic  patrol,  the  following 
reconnaissance,  the  resulting  air  work. 

The  infantry  never  knew  how  it  was  that 
the  attack  never  reached  them,  why  they  did 
not  have  to  beat  it  off  with  bullet  and  bayonet 
— or  be  beaten  in  by  it-— except  that  the  guns 
perhaps  had  stopped  it.  The  public  did  not 
know  because  the  press  did  not  say — perhaps 
because  the  press  itself  didn't  know.  And 
what  the  Air  Service  knew,  as  usual  it  didn't 
tell. 

But  Somebody  evidently  knew,  because 
Washie    and    Pip    found    themselves    shortly 


106        "THE  ATTACK  WAS  BROKEN" 

afterwards  in  Orders  for  a  Decoration;  and 
apparently  the  Squadron  knew,  because  next 
morning  when  he  went  out  to  his  'bus  Washie 
found  that  *^Pan''  had  a  neat  little  splash  of 
paint  on  what  you  might  call  her  left  breast, 
an  oblong  little  patch  showing  the  colours  of 
the  ribbon  of  the  Military  Cross. 


All  that  we  are  and  all  we  own, 
All  that  we  have  and  hold  or  take. 
All  that  we  tackle  or  do  or  try 
Is  not  for  our,  or  the  Corps^  own  sake. 

Through  our  open  eyes  the  Armies  see, 
We  look  and  we  learn  that  they  may  know. 
Collect  from  the  clouds  the  news  they  need, 
And  carry  it  back  to  them  below. 
We  harry  the  guns  that  do  us  no  harm, 
We  picture  the  paths  we  shall  never  take; 
There's  naught  to  help  or  to  hinder  us 
On  the  road  we  bomb  or  the  bridge  we  break. 
Only  to  work  where  our  footmen  wish, 
Only  to  guard  them  from  prying  eyes, 
To  find  and  to  fetch  the  word  they  want, 
We  war  unceasing  and  hold  the  skies. 

All  that  we  are  and  all  we  own, 

All  that  we  have  or  hope  or  know, 

Our  work  and  our  wits,  our  deaths,  our  liveSf 

We  stake  above,  that  they  win  below. 


IX 

IF  THEY  KNEW— 

A  GROUP  of  infantry  in  our  front  line  trench 
watching  the  boiHng  eddying  smoke  and  spurt- 
ing fires  of  our  artillery  barrage  on  the  enemy 
lines  saw  a  couple  of  planes  whirl  suddenly 
up  into  sight  above  and  beyond  the  barrage 
smoke.  They  were  diving  and  twisting  about 
each  other  like  a  couple  of  tumbler  pigeons 
in  flight,  or  rather,  since  one  was  obviously 
pursuing  the  other  closely,  like  a  pigeon  hard 
pressed  by  a  hawk.  The  excitement  of  the 
infantry  turned  to  disgust  as  they  caught  plain 
sight  of  the  markings  on  the  machine^  saw  that 
the  pursued  was  a  British  machine,  the  pursuer 
a  black-crossed  German.  And  when  the  British 
machine  came  rocketting  and  whirling  through 
the  barrage  smother  in  plain  flight  from  the 
German,  who  dared  not  follow  through  the  wall 
of  falling  and  bursting  shells,  the  disgust  of 
the  men  on  the  ground  was  openly  and  angrily 
expressed. 

"Mastery  o'  the  air,"  shouted  one.  "Fat 
lot  he'll  master."  And  from  the  others  came 
similar  jeers —  "Hurry  up,  son,  or  he'll  catch 

107 


108  IF  THEY  KNEW— 

you  yet — Why  couldn't  he  have  put  up  a  fight? 
— Do  they  ever  court-martial  them  blokes  for 
runnin'  away? — Fritz  fliers  top  dog  again." 

And  yet,  if  those  men  had  known,  they  would 
have  cheered  the  man  passing  over  them, 
cheered  him  for  as  plucky  a  man  as  ever  flew 
— and  that  is  saying  something.  If  they  knew, 
so  often  if  they  knew — but  at  least  I  can  let 
them  know  something  of  this  particular  story. 

The  FHght  went  out  as  usual  on  "o.p.'' 
(offensive  patrol),  which,  again  as  usual,  had 
taken  them  well  over  Hunland.  For  the  first 
half-hour  they  had  a  dull  time,  seeing  no  Huns 
about  and  having  no  more  than  the  normal 
amount  of  Archie  fire  to  dodge.  Then  the 
Flight  Leader  spotted  a  string  of  dots  to  east- 
ward, and  on  counting  them  and  finding  they 
numbered  something  round  a  dozen  to  fifteen, 
concluded  they  were  Huns.  He  ensured  the 
Flight's  attention  to  the  matter,  and  then 
pointing  his  machine  straight  at  the  enemy, 
and  after  glancing  round  to  make  sure  the  Flight 
were  in  correct  formation,  began  to  climb  them 
steadily  up  and  towards  the  oncoming  hostiles. 
He  kept  a  close  watch  on  the  enemy,  because 
he  knew  that  the  Squadron  to  which  he  be- 
longed and  the  type  of  machine  they  flew  had 
a  name  apparently  discouraging  to  the  Huns' 
fighting  inclinations,  and  he  was  afraid  that, 
even  with  more  than  two  to  one  in  their  favour, 
they  might  on  recognising  the  Flight  avoid 
action  and  clear  off.  The  Flight  had  already 
burnt  a  good  hour's  petrol  and  had  some  miles 


IF  THEY  KNEW—  100 

A 

to  go  back  home,  and  this  did  not  leave  a  very 
great  margin  for  a  long  pursuit  and  perhaps 
a  prolonged  fight.  But  this  time  the  Huns 
showed  no  sign  of  shirking  the  fight,  and  came 
driving  straight  west  on  a  course  which  must 
very  soon  bring  them  into  contact  with  the 
FHght.  As  they  swept  closer  it  was  seen  that 
the  hostile  fleet  was  made  up  of  three  two- 
seater  machines  and  a  dozen  single-seater  fight- 
ing scouts,  and  just  before  they  came  close 
enough  for  action  ^^Ailie"  Arrowman,  the 
Flight  Leader,  noticed  something  else  that  made 
him  decide  very  quickly  to  concentrate  the 
Flight's  frightfulness  on  the  two-seaters.  The 
three  were  bombers,  and  from  their  slow  and 
heavy  flight  obviously  fully  loaded  with  bombs, 
and  from  the  direction  they  were  taking  were 
clearly  out  on  a  bombing  raid  over  the  British 
lines. 

Now  these  Hun  raids  and  bomb-droppings 
had  been  becoming  unpleasantly  frequent  for  a 
little  time  before  this,  and  all  our  patrols  had 
special  orders  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  for 
bombers  and  make  things  as  hot  for  them  as 
possible.  The  Hun  was  coming  to  specialise 
on  rapid  dashes  over  our  lines,  the  hurried 
dropping  of  their  eggs,  and  a  hasty  bee-line 
flight  for  home.  Our  infantry  and  our  batteries 
were  a  good  deal  annoyed  by  these  attentions, 
and  naturally  and  very  simply  wanted  to  know 
why  our  flying  men  didn't  ^'stop  these  blighters 
coming  and  going  as  they  liked."  This,  of 
course,  is  a  delusion  of  the  men  on  the  ground. 


110  IF  THEY  KNEW— 

The  Huns  were  very  far  from  doing  as  they 
Hked,  but  since  the  air  (for  flying  purposes)  is 
twenty  odd  thousand  feet  high,  and  as  long  as 
the  line,  it  takes  a  lot  of  policing  against  tip- 
and-run  raids,  especially  when  you  remember 
that  machines  can  pass  within  quite  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  each  other  and  never  know 
the  other  is  there.  The  groundlings  don't 
recognise  these  facts,  much  less  the  incidental 
possibilities  of  Huns  sneaking  over  under  cover 
of  clouds  and  so  on,  and  it  must  be  confessed 
the  airmen,  as  a  rule,  don't  take  many  pains 
to  enlighten  them,  even  when  they  do  get 
talking  together.  On  the  ground,  again,  they 
know  nothing  of  the  Hun  bombers  chased  back 
and  brought  down  well  behind  their  own  lines, 
and  nothing  of  the  raids  which  are  caught  and 
interrupted,  as  the  one  I'm  telling  of  was  about 
to  be. 

All  this  is  by  the  way,  but  it  explains  why 
Ailie  was  specially  keen  to  out  the  bombing 
machines  first  of  all,  and  also  why  the  bombers 
at  the  first  sign  of  attack  on  them  dropped 
their  noses  and  went  off  at  a  rush,  and  the  Hun 
fighters  hurriedly  dived  in  to  divert  the  Flight 
and  force  a  fight  with  them.  We  need  not 
at  the  moment  follow  the  details  of  the  whole 
fight,  but  see  rather  how  the  one  man  Aihe 
fared  in  it.  But,  incidentally,  it  may  be  men- 
tioned that  the  rest  of  the  Flight  sank  one 
bomber  and  chased  the  other  down  to  the 
ground,  fought  the  escort  and  sank  three  of 
them  at  a  cost  of  no  more  than  one  pilot  wounded, 


IF  THEY  KNEW—  111 

a  great  many  bullet  holes  in  the  machines,  and 
one  badly  crippled  and  just  able  to  reach  and 
land  on  our  side  of  the  lines. 

Ailie  went  down  in  a  hurricane  dive  on  the 
first  bomber,  and  since  he  was  much  faster 
than  the  big  machine,  especially  with  it  carry- 
ing a  full  load,  he  caught  it  up  rapidly,  and 
bringing  his  bow  gun  into  action  commenced 
to  hail  a  stream  of  lead  on  it.  The  gunner  of 
the  two-seater  began  to  fire  back  at  Ailie,  but 
as  his  pilot  at  the  same  time  was  swerving  and 
swinging  his  machine  to  dodge  the  streaking 
bullets,  he  spoiled  the  gunner's  aim  and  few 
of  the  bullets  came  dangerously  close  to  Ailie. 
But  two  of  the  enemy  scouts  had  seen  Ailie's 
charge,  had  promptly  swung  and  dived  after 
him,  and,  following  hard  astern,  opened  fire 
in  their  turn.  Ailie  caught  up  the  two-seater, 
swooped  down  under  her,  throttled  back  to 
keep  her  pace,  pulled  down  the  gun  fixed  on 
his  top  plane,  and  started  to  pelt  bullets  up 
into  the  underbody  hurtling  along  above  him. 
The  two  Hun  scouts  dropped  to  his  level  and 
followed,  shooting  close  and  hard,  and  Ailie, 
finding  their  bullets  snapping  and  smacking  on 
his  planes,  was  forced  to  swerve  and  duck  and 
at  last  to  turn  sharp  on  them.  Either  he  was  the 
better  pilot  or  his  was  the  handier  machine, 
because  in  a  few  seconds  he  had  out-manoeuvred 
them  and  driven  them  diving  down  ahead  of  him. 
He  ripped  a  short  burst  into  one,  wheeled, 
looked  round  for  sight  of  his  two-seater  and, 
sighting  it  tearing  off  at  top  speed,  swung  and, 


112  IF  THEY  KNEW— 

opening  his  engine  full  out,  went  racing  after 
it.  The  two-seater  flung  himself  into  a  spin 
and  went  twisting  and  spiralling  wildly  down, 
'  Ailie  following  close  and  shooting  whenever 
he  could  bring  his  sights  to  bear.  But  again 
the  renewed  rattle  of  close  machine-gun  fire 
began,  and  he  glanced  round  to  find  the  scouts 
hot  in  pursuit  again.  This  time  they  were  not 
to  be  pursuers  only,  for  another  of  the  Flight 
leaped  suddenly  into  the  fight,  rattled  off  a 
quick  burst  of  fire,  and  in  an  instant  had  one 
of  the  enemy  scouts  plunging  down  helplessly 
out  of  control,  whirled  round  and  without  a 
second's  hesitation  attacked  the  second.  The 
Hun  bomber,  down  to  about  1,000  feet,  flattened 
out  and  drove  off  east  with  Ailie  still  hard  after 
him.  He  was  getting  angry  now.  Burst  after 
burst  of  fire  he  had  poured,  as  far  as  he  could 
see,  straight  into  the  big  machine,  and  yet  it 
kept  on  apparently  unharmed.  But  suddenly 
its  tail  flicked  up,  a  wing  buckled  and  tore  loose, 
and  it  went  down  rolling  and  pitching,  to  crash 
on  the  ground. 

Ailie  swept  over,  leaning  out  and  peering 
down  on  the  heaped  wreckage;  but  what- 
ever triumph  he  might  have  felt  was  short- 
lived, for  at  that  moment  tat-tat-tat-tat  went  a 
gun  close  behind  him  and  then  the  quicker 
closer  rattle  of  double  or  triple  guns.  Ailie 
hoicked  hard  up  in  a  swift  chmbing  turn,  whirled 
round,  and  just  catching  one  of  the  enemy 
scouts  in  his  sights,  gripped  the  trigger  of  the 
firing   mechanism.     His   gun    fired — once — and 


IF  THEY  KNEW—  113 

stopped,  although  he  still  held  the  trigger 
hard  gripped  and  it  should  have  continued  to 
fire.  The  target  swept  clear,  and  Aihe,  after 
gripping  and  releasing  quickly  several  times, 
knew  his  gun  had  jammed.  The  two  hostiles 
reopened  fire  on  him,  and  he  swerved,  straight- 
ened out  and  went  off  in  a  bee-line  at  top 
speed.  He  was  not  unduly  alarmed,  although 
his  position,  a  bare  1,000  feet  off  the  ground 
and  therefore  well  within  ground  shooting  range 
of  rifles  and  machine-guns,  with  a  jammed 
gun,  and  with  two  scouts  hard  after  him,  was 
uncomfortably  risky.  He  was  on  a  fast  machine, 
so  fast  that  he  did  not  beheve  the  Hun  flew 
that  could  catch  him;  and  he  reckoned  that 
in  a  straightaway  flight  he  could  drop  the  two 
sufficiently  to  be  out  of  urgent  danger  from 
them.  As  he  flew  he  leaned  forward,  wrenched 
back  the  cover  over  the  breech  of  his  gun  and 
jerked  the  loading  lever  rapidly  to  and  fro. 
But  the  jammed  cartridge  stayed  jammed  and 
Ailie  felt  a  first  qualm  of  fear,  as  he  heard  the 
guns  behind  him  reopen  fire  and  recognised 
that  he  was  not  gaining  on  his  enemies.  Another 
gun  broke  into  the  chorus,  and  Ailie  glanced 
round  to  see  another  of  his  Flight  diving  in 
and  engaging  one  of  the  enemy.  The  second 
one,  a  bright  scarlet  painted  scout,  kept  on 
after  him,  caught  him  up  and  dived  firing  on 
him. 

Then  began  a  game  that  AiHe  might  remember 
in  his  nightmares  for  long  enough.  His  machine 
was  not  doing  her  best,  and  the  hostile  fairly 


114        ^  IF  THEY  KNEW— 

had  the  wings  of  him.  Time  after  time  the 
Hun  swooped  up  over  him  and  dived  down, 
firing  as  he  came.  Ailie  could  only  duck  and 
swerve  and  dodge,  some  of  his  dives  bringing 
him  perilously  close  to  the  ground;  and  as 
he  flew  he  wrenched  and  jerked  at  his  gun's 
firing  mechanism,  snatched  the  Verey  pistol 
from  its  rack,  and  with  the  butt  tapped  and 
hammered  at  the  gun,  hoping  the  jar  might 
loosen  the  cartridge.  He  escaped  touching 
the  ground  and  crashing  over  and  over  again 
by  bare  feet;  more  than  once  he  had  to  zoom 
sharply  and  just  cleared  low  trees  or  even  bushes 
that  appeared  suddenly  before  him;  once  his 
wheels  brushed  and  ripped  across  the  top  of 
a  hedge,  and  once  again  in  a  banking  turn  his 
heart  stood  still  for  a  second  that  seemed  an 
eternity,  as  he  banked  steeply  and  the  machine 
side-slipped  until  his  wing-tip,  as  it  appeared 
to  him,  was  touching  the  grass.  And  all  the 
time,  in  dive  after  dive,  his  enemy  came  whirl- 
ing down  on  him,  the  fire  of  his  machine-gun 
clattering  off  burst  after  burst,  and  the 
bullets  hissing  past  in  flame  and  smoke  or 
smacking  venomously  on  the  wings  and  body 
of  Ailie's  machine. 

And  through  it  all,  flinging  his  machine  about, 
twirling  and  twisting  like  a  champion  skater 
cutting  fancy  and  fantastic  figures,  doing  star- 
performance  low  flying  that  might  have  kept 
every  nerve  and  sense  of  any  stunt-artist  flier 
occupied  to  the  full,  Ailie  still  made  shift  to 
spare  a  hand  and  enough  eye  and  mind  for  the 


IF  THEY  KNEW—  115 

job  of  fiddling  and  hammering  and  working  to 
clear  his  jammed  gun — a  gun  that  was  not  even 
in  a  convenient  position  to  handle  because, 
set  above  the  left  upper  edge  of  his  cockpit, 
it  was  very  little  below  the  level  of  his  face 
and  awkwardly  high  for  his  hand  to  reach. 
He  gave  up  trying  to  clear  it  at  last  and  turned 
all  his  attention  to  out-manoeuvring  his  op- 
ponent. The  Hun  was  above  him,  and  every 
time  he  tried  to  lift  his  machine  the  Hun  dived, 
firing  on  him,  and  drove  him  down  again.  He 
was  too  low  to  pick  up  or  follow  landmarks, 
so  kept  the  westering  sun  in  his  eyes,  knowing 
this  was  edging  him  west  towards  our  lines. 
The  Hun  after  each  dive  did  a  climbing  turn 
to  a  position  to  dive  anew,  and  each  time  he 
climbed  Ailie  made  another  dash  towards  the 
west.  The  Hun  saw  the  move,  and,  to  beat 
it,  dropped  his  climbing-turn  tactics  and  in- 
stead dived  and  zoomed  straight  up,  dived  and 
zoomed  again  and  again.  Ailie  saw  his  chance 
and  took  it.  He  throttled  hard  back  next 
time  the  Hun  dived,  and  as  the  Hun  overshot 
him  and  zoomed  straight  up,  Ailie  in  two  swift 
motions  pulled  the  stick  in,  lifting  sharp  up 
after  and  under  him,  pulled  down  the  top  gun 
and  fired  point  blank  into  him.  The  Hun 
whirled  over,  dived  vertically,  and  in  an  instant 
crashed  heavily  nose  first  into  the  ground. 
And  Ailie's  top  gun  had  jammed  after  about  its 
tenth  shot. 

He  flew  on  west,  hardly  for  the  moment  daring 
to  believe  he  had  escaped,  opening  the  throttle 


116  IF  THEY  KNEW— 

and  starting  to  lift  from  his  dangerous  proximity 
to  the  ground  mechanically,  and  with  his  mind 
hardly  yet  working  properly.  If  he  had  not 
caught  the  Hun  with  that  last  handful  of  shots 
before  his  second  gun  jammed  .  .  . 

And  then,  almost  before  he  had  collected 
his  wits  enough  to  realise  properly  how  close 
his  escape  had  been,  that  same  horrible  clatter 
of  machine-gun  fire  from  the  air  above  and 
behind  him  broke  out,  the  same  hiss  and  snap 
of  bullets  came  streaming  about  him.  For  a 
moment  he  had  a  wild  idea  that  his  Hun  had 
not  actually  crashed,  but  a  glance  round  showed 
that  it  was  no  longer  the  brilliant  red  machine, 
but  another,  and  again  a  fighting  scout. 

Exactly  the  old  performance  started  all  over 
again,  but  this  time  without  even  that  slender 
chance  he  had  used  so  well  before  of  catching 
his  enemy  with  the  fire  of  his  top  gun.  Again 
he  went  through  the  twisting  and  dodging  and 
turning  to  avoid  his  relentless  enemy  and  the 
fire  that  crackled  about  him.  Again  he  dived 
into  fields,  skimmed  the  ground,  hurdled  over 
low  bushes  and  hedges,  used  every  flying  trick 
and  artifice  he  knew,  but  had  never  before 
dared  try  at  less  than  thousands  of  feet  height, 
to  shake  off  his  pursuer;  and  again  as  he  flew 
he  wriggled  and  worked  at  the  jammed  gun 
in  front  of  him.  For  breathless  minutes  he 
worked,  casting  quick  glances  from  the  ground 
rushing  under  him  to  the  gun  mechanism, 
jockeying  his  machine  with  steady  pressures 
*or  sharp  kicks  on  the  rudder-bar  and  one  hand 


IF  THEY  KNEW—  117 

on  the  joy-stick,  while  the  other  fumbled  and 
worked  at  the  gun,  and  the  bullets  sang  and 
cracked  about  him.  By  all  the  laws  of  chance, 
by  all  the  rules  of  hazard,  he  should  have  been 
killed,  shot  down  or  driven  down  into  a  crash, 
a  dozen  times  over  in  those  few  minutes;  just 
as  by  all  the  limits  of  possibility  he  could 
never  hope  to  clear  a  jammed  gun  while  doing 
fancy  flying  at  such  a  height.  But  against  all 
chance  and  hazard  and  possibility — as  pilots 
do  oftener  than  most  people  outside  themselves 
know — he  flew  on  untouched,  and  .  .  .  cleared 
his  jamb.  By  now  he  was  worked  up  to  such 
a  pitch  of  fear,  frenzy,  desperation,  anger — it 
may  have  been  any  of  them,  it  may  have  been 
something  of  all — that  he  took  no  further 
thought  of  manoeuvring  or  tactics,  whirled 
blindly  and  drove  straight  at  his  enemy,  firing 
as  he  went,  feeling  a  savage  joy  in  the  jar  and 
bang  of  his  spurting  gun.  To  avoid  that 
desperate  rush  and  the  streaming  bullets,  the 
Hun  swerved  wide  and  swooped  out  in  a  bank- 
ing turn,  a  turn  so  hurriedly  and  blindly  taken 
that,  before  he  could  properly  see,  he  found 
himself  whirling  into  the  edge  of  a  forest  the 
chase  had  unwittingly  skirted.  Ailie  saw  him 
distinctly  try  to  wrench  round  to  clear  the  trees 
— but  he  was  too  near;  to  hoick  up  and  over 
them — but  he  was  too  low.  He  crashed  sideways 
on  a  tree-trunk,  down  headlong  into  the  ground. 
Again  Ailie  swung  and  flew  straight  towards 
the  sun,  switching  on  to  the  emergency  tank, 
because  by  now  his  main  petrol  tank  was  almost 


118  IF  THEY  KNEW— 

empty.  He  continued  to  fly  low  and  no  more 
than  100  or  200  feet  off  the  ground.  At  his 
speed  it  would  take  a  good  ^hot  to  hit  him  from 
the  ground;  higher  up  he  would  run  more  risk 
of  Archie  fire  and  of  meeting  Huns,  and — this 
perhaps  was  the  main  determining  factor,  be- 
cause by  now  he  was  almost  exhausted  with 
the  fatigue  of  severe  and  prolonged  strain — 
flying  low  would  bring  him  quicker  to  the  lines 
and  safety. 

One  might  have  supposed  that  by  now  the 
grim  gods  of  War  had  had  sport  enough  of  him. 
But  he  was  not  yet  free  of  them.  Within  a 
mile  he  was  attacked  again,  and  this  time  by 
three  hostile  scout  fighters.  He  made  no  at- 
tempt to  dodge  or  out-manoeuvre  them.  His 
cartridges  were  almost  finished,  his  machine 
was  badly  shot  about,  his  petrol  was  running 
out.  He  opened  his  engine  out  to  its  fullest 
and  drove  hard  and  headlong  for  the  lines  and 
the  drifting  smoke  and  winking  fires  that  told 
of  an  artillery  barrage.  Close  to  the  barrage 
he  had  to  swerve  and  dodge  a  moment,  because 
one  of  the  Huns  was  fairly  on  top  of  him  and 
hailing  lead  on  him,  but  next  instant  he  plunged 
at,  into  and  through  the  barrage,  his  machine 
rocking  and  pitching  and  rolling  in  the  turmoil 
of  shell-torn  air,  his  eyes  blinded  by  the  drifting 
smoke,  his  ears  stunned  by  the  rending  crashes 
and  cracks  of  the  drum-fire  explosions.  He 
won  through  safely  and  alone,  for  his  three 
enemies  balked  at  facing  that  puffing,  spurting, 
fire- winking  inferno,  turned  back  and  left  him. 


IF  THEY  KNEW-  11^ 

Ailie,  hardly  daring  to  believe  that  he  was 
actually  clear  and  safe  and  free,  steered  for 
home.  He  skimmed  his  bullet-torn  machine 
over  the  trenches,  a  machine  holed  and  ripped 
and  torn  and  cut  with  armour-piercing  and 
explosive  bullets,  his  guns  jammed,  his  am- 
munition expended,  his  petrol  at  its  last  pints, 
he  himself  at  almost  the  last  point  of  exhaustion, 
dizzy  from  excitement,  weak  and  faint  from 
sheer  strain. 

Yet  this  was  the  man  and  the  moment  that 
those  infantry  in  the  trenches  jeered,  looking 
up  as  he  passed  over,  his  ripped  fabric  fluttering, 
his  shot-through  wires  whipping  and  traiUng, 
blessing  the  wildest  luck  that  had  left  him 
aUve,  heart-thankful,  for  the  sight  of  khaki  in 
the  trenches  below  him. 

It  seems  a  pity  those  disgusted  infantry  could 
not  have  known  the  truth,  of  all  he  had  come 
through,  of  those  long  danger-packed  minutes, 
of  those  three  crashed  Huns  scattered  along 
his  track — and  of  those  bombs  which  would 
not  drop  on  our  lines,  batteries,  or  billets  that 
day. 


X 

THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION 

I  AM  naturally  anxious  to  avoid  angering  the 
Censor  by  naming  any  particular  type  or  make 
of  machine,  but  fear  it  is  inevitable  that  anyone 
who  knows  anything  of  aeroplanes  must  recog- 
nise in  reading  this  story  the  type  concerned, 
although  that  may  hardly  matter,  since  the  Hun 
knows  the  type  well  (and  to  his  sorrow),  and  the 
tale  more  fully  in  the  exact  detail  of  his  casualties 
than  we  do.  And  because  this  type,  which  we 
may  call  the  '*Fo-Fum  2,'^  has  for  a  full  year 
previous  to  the  date  of  this  story's  happenings 
been  openly  scoffed  at  and  condemned  in  speech 
and  print  by  the  '^experts"  as  slow,  clumsy, 
obsolete,  and  generally  useless,  I  also  fear  I  may 
be  accused  of  '^leg-puUing'^  and  impossibly 
romancing  in  crediting  the  Fo-Fums  with  such  a 
startHng  fight  performance.  I  may  warn  such 
critics  in  advance,  however,  that  I  can  produce 
official  records  to  prove  a  dozen  shows  almost 
or  quite  equally  good  to  the  credit  of  the 
Fo-Fums. 

A  Flight  of  six  Fo-Fums  went  up  and  over 
Hunland  one  morning  when  a  westerly  wind  and 

120 


THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION  121 

a  strong  hint  of  dirty  weather  in  the  air  made 
it  an  abnormally  risky  patrol  for  anything  but 
the  best  of  pilots  and  the  most  reliable  of 
machines  and  engines.  But  the  Fo-Fums; 
whatever  their  other  faults,  have  at  least  the 
admitted  merit  of  rehabiUty,  and  the  quaHty  of 
the  pilots  on  this  patrol  is  fairly  shown  by  this 
story. 

They  were  well  over  the  lines  and  about 
10,000  feet  up  when  a  circus  of  about  twenty 
Huns  hove  in  sight  well  above  them.  The  Flight 
Leader  saw  them  and,  cUmbing  a  little  as  they 
went,  he  led  the  formation  towards  the  hostiles, 
or,  as  he  put  it,  '^  beetled  off  to  have  a  look  at 
'em."  The  Huns  evidently  saw  the  Fo-Fums 
at  the  same  time,  and  with  natural  wilUngness  to 
indulge  in  a  scrap  with  odds  of  more  than  three 
to  one  in  their  favour  swooped  up,  ''coming  Hke 
stink,"  to  quote  the  Flight  Leader  again,  to  the 
attack. 

The  Fo-Fums  knew  how  the  ball  would  almost 
certainly  open  under  the  circumstances — twenty 
Hun  scouts  with  the  advantage  of  superior 
speed,  height  and  weather  gauge,  against  six 
Fo-Fums — and  quietly  slid  into  a  formation  they 
had  more  than  once  proved  useful  in  similar 
conditions. 

The  Huns,  seeing  no  other  enemies  near  enough 
to  interfere,  circled  above,  collected  their  for- 
mation into  shape,  and  made  their  leisurely  dis- 
positions for  the  attack,  while  the  Fo-Fums  no 
less  leisurely  straightened  out  their  wedge-shaped 
formation,  swung  the  head  of  the  line  in  a  circle, 


122  THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION 

which  brought  the  leader  round  until  he  was  fol- 
lowing the  last  machine  of  the  FHght,  and  so 
commenced  a  steady  circling  or — one  can  hardly 
refrain  from  quoting  that  expressive  FUght 
Leader — '^chasing  each  other^s  tails  in  a  blessed 
ring-o '-roses  giddy-go-round/'  The  Huns  drove 
up  into  a  position  which  brought  them  between 
the  Fo-Fums  and  the  sun,  thereby,  of  course, 
gaining  the  additional  advantage  of  being  able 
to  aim  and  shoot  with  the  sun  in  their  backs  while 
the  Fo-Fums  had  the  Hght  in  their  eyes. 

The  Fo-Fum  men  were  not  greatly  disturbed 
by  this,  for  several  reasons,  because  they  were 
used  to  conceding  the  advantage  in  beginning  a 
fight,  because  knowing  the  Huns  had  the  wings 
of  them  it  was  no  use  trying  to  avoid  it,  and 
because  they  were  contentedly  sure  that  there 
were  so  many  beastly  Huns  there  they  couldn't 
all  keep  ''in  the  sun"  and  that  each  man  would 
easily  find  a  target  sufficiently  out  of  it.  They 
continued  their  '*  giddy-go-round,''  and  a  dozen 
of  the  Huns  at  top  speed,  with  engines  full  out 
and  machine-guns  rattling  and  ripping  out  a 
storm  of  tracer  bullets  in  streaking  pencil-lines 
of  flame  and  blue  smoke,  came  hurtling  down  Hke 
live  thunderbolts.  The  sight  alone  might  well 
have  been  a  terrifying  one  to  the  Fo-Fum  men, 
and!^the  sharp,  whip-like  smacks  and  cracks  about 
them  of  the  explosive  bullets  which  began  to  find 
their  mark  on  fabric  or  frame  would  also  have 
been  upsetting  to  any  but  the  steadiest  nerves. 

But  the  Fo-Fums  showed  not  the  slightest 
sign  of  panicky  nerves.    They  held  their  fire 


THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION  123 

until  the  diving  Huns  were  within  reasonable 
shoot-to-hit  range,  and  met  them  with  a  sharp 
burst  of  fire  from  observers'  or  pilots'  guns  as 
the  position  of  each  machine  in  the  circle  gave 
a  field  of  fire  ahead  or  anywhere  in  a  full  half- 
circle  round  to  port,  stern,  or  starboard. 

It  may  help  matters  to  explain  here — and 
again  it  tells  nothing  to  the  Hun  that  he  doesn't 
already  know  well  and  to  his  sorrow — that  the 
fighting  Fo-Fum  mounts  three  machine-guns — 
one,  which  the  pilot  handles,  shooting  ahead; 
another  which  the  observer,  sitting  in  front  of 
the  pilot  and  to  the  side  of  the  pilot's  gun,  shoots 
anywhere  outward  in  a  half-circle  round  the 
bow  and  in  any  forward  direction  down  or  up; 
and  a  third  placed  on  the  top  plane,  which 
the  observer  also  shoots  by  jumping  up  from  his 
bow  gun,  standing  almost  man-high  clear  of  the 
"  gun'l "  of  the  machine's  body,  and  aiming 
up  or  level  outward  to  either  side  and  astern. 

In  meeting  the  attacking  dive  the  observers 
stood  up  to  their  top  guns,  and  if  their  position 
in  the  Flight's  circle  allowed  them  to  bring  their 
gun  to  bear  on  an  enemy,  they  opened  fire.  If 
the  machine  was  full  bow  on  to  the  rush  the  pilot 
fired;  or  if  she  was  in  such  a  position  that  he 
could  not  see  a  target  sufficiently  ahead,  or  the 
observer  see  suflaciently  to  the  side,  he  dodged 
the  machine  in  or  out  of  the  circle  enough  to 
bring  one  of  the  guns  to  bear,  and  then  wheeled 
her  back  into  position. 

These  tacties  may  sound  complicated,  but 
really    are — so    the    Fo-Fums    say — beautifully 


124  THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION 

simple  when  you  know  them  and  are  used  to 
them.  What  they  amount  to  is  merely  the  fact 
that  all  six  machines  were  able  to  open  fire 
within  a  second  or  two  of  one  another,  and  that 
in  some  cases  the  pilot  was  able  to  get  in  a  second 
burst  from  his  bow  gun  by  dipping  his  nose  down 
after  a  hostile  as  she  plunged  past. 

That  they  were  effective  tactics  was  promptly 
demonstrated  to  the  Huns  by  one  of  their 
machines  bursting  into  flames,  another  rolling 
over  sideways  and  "  dead-leafing "  down  in  a 
series  of  side-to-side  slips  which  ended  in  a  crash 
on  the  ground  below,  and  by  another  continuing 
his  dive  well  down,  changing  it  into  a  long  glide 
to  the  eastward  and  out  of  the  fight,  evidently 
with  machine  or  pilot  out  of  action.  Several 
of  the  Fo-Fums  had  bullet-holes  in  their 
machines,  but  nothing  vital  was  touched,  and 
they  had  just  time  to  connect  up  nicely  into  their 
compact  circle  when  the  remainder  of  the  Huns 
came  tearing  down  on  them  in  similar  terrifying 
fashion. 

But  the  Fo-Fums  met  them  in  their  similar 
fashion,  and  when  the  Huns,  instead  of  diving 
past  and  down  as  the  first  lot  had  done,  curved 
up  in  an  abrupt  zoom,  the  observers  swung 
their  gun-muzzles  up  after  them  and  pelted  them 
out  of  range.  One  Hun  lost  control  just  on  the 
point  of  his  upward  zoom,  flung  headlong  out 
until  he  stalled  and  fell  out  of  the  fight  for  good. 
From  the  fact  that  his  gun  continued  to  fire  at 
nothing  until  he  was  lost  to  notice  it  was  evident 
either  that  his  gear  was  damaged  or  the  pilot 


THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION^         125 

\' 
hit  and  unconsciously  gripping  or  hanging  to  the 
trigger  or  firing  mechanism.  A  fourth  Hun  at 
the  top  of  his  zoom  up  lurched  suddenly,  fell 
away  in  a  spinning  nose  dive,  and  also  vanished 
from  the  proceedings — whether  "  crashed  "  or 
merely  ^'  out  of  control  "  was  never  known. 

In  a  fight  against  this  sort  of  odds,  which  our 
pilots  so  often  have,  the  need  of  keeping  an  eye 
on  active  enemies  rather  than  on  the  subsequent 
interesting  fashion  of  an  out-of-contrbrs  finish 
certainly  reduces  our  air  men's  score  a  good  deal, 
since  it  is  the  rule  only  to  claim  and  record 
oflficially  as  a  "  crash  "  a  machine  which  is 
actually  seen  (and  confirmed)  to  have  smashed 
on  the  ground,  to  have  broken  in  air,  or  other- 
wise have  made  a  sure  and  positive  finish.  Five 
Huns  down  and  definitely  out  of  action  was  a 
good  beginning  to  the  fight,  especially  as  no 
Fo-Fum  was  damaged,  and  the  odds  were  now 
reduced  to  fifteen  against  six — quite,  according 
to  the  Fo-Fums,  usual  and  reasonably  sporting 
odds. 

But  the  odds  were  to  lengthen  to  such  an 
extent  that  even  the  seasoned  and  daring 
fighters  of  No.  Umpty  Squadron  began  to  look 
grave  and  feel  concerned.  Two  Flights  came 
looming  up  rapidly  from  eastward,  and,  occupied 
as  the  Fo-Fums  were  with  the  first  brush,  the 
new  enemies  were  upon  them  almost  the  instant 
the  second  rush  on  them  finished — before,  in 
fact,  the  first  Huns  shot  down  and  hit  the  ground. 
The  newcomers  converged  on  the  fight  and 
dashed  straight  at  the  Fo-Fum  circle  without  a 


/ 

126  THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION 

pause.  There  were  twelve  of  them  in  one  lot 
and  eight  in  the  other,  and  that,  added  to  the 
twenty  the  Fo-Fums  had  counted  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fight,  made  a  total  of  forty  machines 
against  their  six. 

After  this  the  tale  of  the  fight  can  no  longer 
be  told  as  a  whole.  It  developed  into  a  series 
of  rushes  and  dives  on  the  part  of  the  enemy  in 
large  or  small  numbers,  swift  leaps  and  turns 
and  twists,  and  plunges  and  checks,  repeated  hot 
attacks  and  attempts  by  the  Huns  to  break 
the  Fo-Fums'  steady  circle,  determined  and 
fairly  successful  efforts  of  the  Fo-Fums  to  foil 
the  attempts.  For  long  minute  after  minute 
the  fight  swayed  and  scattered,  flung  apart,  out 
and  down  and  up,  climbed  and  fell  and  closed 
in  again  to  point-blank  quarters.  It  ran  raging 
on  and  on  in  a  constant  fierce  rattle  and  roll  of 
machine-gun  fire,  a  falling  out,  one  fashion  or 
another,  of  Hun  after  Hun,  in  occasional  desper- 
ate fights  of  single  Fo-Fums  forced  out  of  the 
circle  and  battling  to  return  to  it. 

Some  of  these  single-handed  combats  against 
odds  are  worthy  subjects  for  an  air  saga,  each 
to  its  individual  self.  There  was,  for  instance, 
the  Fo-Fum  which  was  forced  out  of  the  circle, 
cut  off,  and  fought  a  lone-hand  battle  against 
eleven  enemies.  The  observer  stood  and  shot 
over  his  top  plane  at  one  Hun  who  tried  to 
cover  himself  behind  the  tail  of  the  Fo-Fum. 
The  pilot  at  the  same  instant  was  lifting  the  nose 
a  little  to  bring  his  gun  to  bear  on  another  Hun 
diving  on  him  from  ahead,  and  this  sinking  of  the 


THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION  127 

Fo-Fum*s  stern  gave  the  observer  a  chance.  He 
filled  it  with  a  quick  burst  from  his  machine-gun, 
and  filled  the  Hun  so  effectively  full  of  bullets 
that  his  nose  dropped  and  he  swooped  under 
the  Fo-Fum.  The  observer  jumped  down  to 
his  bow  gun,  swung  the  muzzle  down,  and  caught 
the  Hun  passing  under  with  a  burst  which  finished 
him  and  sent  him  whirling  down  out  of  control. 

The  pilot's  shooting  at  the  same  time  was 
equally  effective.  The  Hun  who  had  dived  on 
his  right  front  was  met  by  a  quick  turn  which 
brought  the  bow  gun  to  bear  and  a  short  burst 
of  fire.  The  Hun  continued  to  dive  past  and 
under,  and  both  pilot  and  observer  caught  a 
flashing  but  clear-imprinted  picture  of  the  Hun 
pilot  collapsed  in  a  heap  on  his  seat  before  he 
also  fell  helplessly  rolling  and  spinning  down  out 
of  the  fight. 

The  observer,  dropping  his  forward  gun  as  he 
saw  his  shooting  effective,  scrambled  quickly  up 
to  his  top  gun  and  was  just  in  time  to  open  on 
another  Hun  not  more  than  twenty  feet  away 
and  with  his  gun  going  "  nineteen  to  the  dozen, 
and  rapping  bullets  all  over  the  old  bus  till  she's 
as  full  of  holes  as  a  Gruyere  cheese,''  as  the 
observer  said.  He  only  fired  about  a  dozen 
rounds — the  fight  by  now  had  been  running  long 
enough  and  hot  enough  to  make  economy  of 
ammunition  a  consideration — but  some  of  the 
dozen  got  home  and  sent  another  Hun  plunging 
down  and  out. 

The  observer  just  lifted  his  eyes  from  watch- 
ing the"  late  lamented  "  and  trying  to  decide 


128  THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION 

whether  he  was  "  outed  "  or  "  playing  dead/' 
in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  black  cross  streak- 
ing past  astern  of  him.  He  glued  his  eyes  to 
the  sights,  jerked  his  muzzle  round  after  the 
fresh  enemy,  and  just  as  he  swung  in  a  steep 
bank  "  slapped  a  hatful  of  lead  into  him  "  and 
saw  a  strip  of  the  hostile's  cowling  rip  and  lift 
and  beat  flailing  back  against  the  struts  until 
the  enemy  shut  off  engine  and  glided  out. 

The  pilot's  gun  was  clattering  again,  and  the 
observer,  seeing  all  clear  behind  him,  turned  and 
half  jumped,  half  fell,  down  into  his  cockpit  as 
the  Fo-Fum  lay  over  on  her  beam-ends  in  a  bank 
that  brought  her  almost  sheer  on  her  wing-tip. 
He  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  pilot's  fresh  victim 
fall  out  of  control,  and  dropping  the  bow  gun  he 
had  grabbed  he  hoisted  himself  to  his  top  gun 
again. 

It  sounds  a  little  thing  when  one  speaks  of  all 
this  jumping  down  and  scrambling  up  from  one 
gun  to  another,  but  it  is  worth  pausing  to  con- 
sider just  what  it  means.  The  place  the  observer 
had  to  jump  from  at  his  top  gun  was  about  as 
scanty  and  precarious  as  a  canary  bird's  perch; 
the  space  he  had  to  jump  or  fall  down  into  was 
little  bigger  than  a  respectable  hip-bath;  the 
floor  and  footholds  on  which  he  did  these  gym- 
nastics were  heaving,  pitching,  and  tossing, 
tilting  to  and  fro  at  anything  between  level,  a 
slope  as  steep  as  a  sharp-angled  roof,  and  steeper 
still  to  near  the  perpendicular. 

And  all  the  time  the  machine  which  carried 
out  the  acrobatic  performance  was  travelling 


THE  FO-FUM'S  REPUTATION  129 

at  the  speed  of  a  record-breaking  express  train, 
and  if  the  performer  mis-jumped  or  over- 
reached the  enclosing  sides  of  his  cockpit,  sides 
httle  more  than  knee-high  as  he  stood  on  the 
floor,  not  ankle-high  as  he  stood  at  the  top  gun, 
he  had  a  clear  eight  to  ten  thousand  feet,  a  good 
mile  and  quarter,  to  fall  before  he  hit  the  ground. 
And  this  particular  Fo-Fum  stood  on  her  head 
or  her  tail,  on  one  wing-tip  or  the  other,  dived 
and  dodged,  twisted  and  turned  and  wriggled 
and  fought  her  way  through,  over,  under,  and 
about  her  eleven  opponents,  putting  four  well 
down  and  a  fifth  damaged  in  the  process,  and 
picked  up  her  place  in  the  shifting,  breaking, 
and  ragged,  but  always  reforming,  circle. 

The  fight  flared  on  for  full  forty  minutes,  and 
still  at  the  end  of  that  time  the  Fo-Fums  were  all 
afloat  and  able  to  make  home  and  a  good 
landing,  although  some  were  so  shot  about  and 
damaged  that  it  was  only  by  a  marvel  of  pilot- 
ing skill  they  were  kept  going — and,  let  it  be 
added,  as  their  crews  never  failed  to  add,  because 
they  were  stout  buses  well  and  honestly 
built  of  good  material  by  skilled  and  careful 
hands,  driven  by  engines  that  were  a  credit  to 
the  shops  they  came  from  and  would  ''keep 
running  as  strong  as  a  railway  locomotive,  into 
Hell  and  out  the  other  side,  s'long's  you  fed  oil 
and  petrol  to  'em." 

One  machine  had  the  oil  tank  shot  through, 
and  yet  the  engine  ran  long  enough  without 
''seizing  up"  (melting  the  dry  metal  by  friction 
to  sticking  point)   to   get  home.     There  were 


130  THE  FO-FUM^S  REPUTATION 

other  mechanical  miracles — too  technical  for 
explanation  here — that  the  pilots  tell  of  with 
wonder  and  admiration,  although  they  say  little, 
or  at  most  or  no  more  than  a  mild  *'good  man" 
or  "sporting  effort"  of  the  equal  or  greater 
miracle  of  men  enduring  and  keeping  their  wits 
and  stout  hearts,  and  carrying  on,  whole  or 
wounded  as  some  were — one  observer  to  his  death 
soon  after  landing — for  that  forty  minutes' 
savage  fight  against  odds.  Full  forty  minutes, 
and  at  the  end  of  that  time  there  were  only  some 
score  Huns  left  in  the  fight:  and  in  the  finish  it 
was  they  who  broke  off  the  action,  and  sHd  out 
and  away  down  wind. 

'^Y'see,"  as  the  Flight  Leader  said  after  when 
he  was  asked  why  he  didn't  pull  out  or  battle 
his  way  out  and  home,  ''Y'see,  the  old  Fo-Fums 
are  pretty  well  known  on  this  shce  of  front,  and 
they've  got  a  reputation  for  never  chucking  a 
scrap.  I'd  have  hated  to  come  plungin'  home 
with  a  crowd  of  Huns  hare-in'  after  us.  The  Une 
'ud  think  we'd  been  runnin'  away  from  a  scrap; 
and  I  wouldn't  Hke  my  Fhght  to  be  letting  down 
the  old  Fo-Fums'  reputation  Hke  that." 

Most  people  will  admit  that  the  FHght  didn't 
let  it  down.  There  are  even  a  good  many  who 
think  it  added  a  good-sized  gilt-edged  leaf  to  the 
Fo-Fums'  and  the  Umpty  Squadron's  plentiful 
laurels. 


XI 

LIKE  GENTLEMEN 

When  Lieutenant  Jack  Smith,  new  come  from 
a  year  of  life  in  the  trenches  and  reserve  billets, 
landed  for  a  day  or  two^s  stay  with  his  brother 
in  one  of  the  squadrons  of  the  R.F.C,  he  began 
to  think  he  had  strayed  into  an  earthly  Paradise, 
was  amazed  that  such  an  excellent  substitute  for 
well-found  civiUsed  Hfe  could  exist  in  the  Field. 

He  got  the  first  shock  when  he  arrived  at  the 
Mrome  about  8.30  a.m.  and  found  his  brother 
still  comfortably  asleep.  While  his  brother  got 
up  and  dressed  he  explained  that,  the  Division 
being  out  on  rest  near  by,  he  had  taken  a  chance 
of  the  long-standing  invitation  to  come  and  spend 
a  day  or  two  with  the  Squadron;  and  while 
he  talked  his  eyes  kept  wandering  round  the 
comfortable  hut — the  bookcase,  the  framed 
pictures  on  the  walls,  the  table  and  easy-chair, 
the  rugs  on  the  floor,  all  the  httle  touches  of 
comfort — luxury,  he  called  them  to  himself — 
about  the  place. 

''You're  pretty  snugly  fixed  up  here,  aren't 
you,  Tom?'*  he  burst  out  at  last. 

''So,  so!"  said  Tom,  pouring  a  big  jug  of  hot 

131 


132  LIKE  GENTLEMEN 

water  into  the  wash-basin — hot  water,  thought 
Jack  Smith,  not  only  for  shaving,  but  to  wash  in. 
''Being  FUght  Commander,  I  have  a  shack  to 
myself,  y^see.  Most  of  the  pilots  share  huts. 
We'll  fix  a  bed  here  for  you  to  sleep.  Hullo, 
quarter-past  nine!  I  must  hurry — won't  be 
any  breakfast  left.     You  had  brek?" 

''Two  hours  ago,"  said  his  brother  "TFe 
don't  He  in  bed  till  afternoon,  like  you  chaps." 

Tom  laughed.  "Not  my  turn  for  dawn 
patrol,"  he  said;  "I'll  be  on  to-morrow.  My 
FUght 's  due  to  go  up  at  noon  to-day."  And  he 
went  on  outlining  the  methods  of  their  work. 

In  the  Mess  they  found  half  a  dozen  other 
pilots  finishing  breakfast.  "My  brother  Jack 
— going  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  us" — ^was 
introduced,  and  in  ten  minutes  found  himself 
pleasantly  at  home  amongst  the  others.  He 
began  to  forget  he  was  at  the  Front  at  all,  and 
the  attentive  waiter  at  his  elbow  helped  heighten 
the  illusion.  "Tea  or  coffee  sir?  .  .  .  Porridge, 
sir?" 

Jack  had  porridge,  and  fresh  milk  with  it  and 
his  tea.  Fresh  milk — and  he'd  nearly  forgotten 
milk  came  from  anything  but  a  tin!  Then  he 
had  a  kipper — not  out  of  a  tin,  either — and  bacon 
and  eggs  and  toast  and  marmalade.  It  was  his 
second  breakfast,  but  he  did  it  full  justice. 

After  breakfast  he  went  out  with  Tom  to  the 
hangars,  and  had  a  look  over  the  machines  and 
pottered  round  generally  until  after  eleven. 
Then  Tom  went  off  to  get  ready  for  patrol,  and 
handed  him  over  to  "Jerry,"  one  of  the  pilots. 


LIKE  GENTLEMEN  133 

Jack  spent  a  fascinating  hour  watching  the  patrol 
start,  and  then  being  taken  round  by  Jerry,  who 
was  bubbhng  over  with  eagerness  to  show  and 
explain  and  tell  him  everything. 

Then  they  had  lunch,  and  again  Jack  was  led 
to  forgetfulness  that  he  was  at  the  Front.  Sitting 
there  with  a  dozen  happy,  laughing,  chatting 
companions  at  a  table  spread  with  a  spotless 
cloth,  with  a  variety  of  food  and  drinks  to  choose 
from,  with  no  sound  of  guns  or  any  other  echo 
of  war  in  his  ears  except  the  occasional  hum  of 
a  plane  overhead — and  that  was  pleasant  and 
musical  rather  than  warUke — he  felt  and  said  he 
might  as  well  be  in  a  long-established  Mess  in 
barracks  at  home. 

After  lunch  he  sat  in  the  ante-room  with  the 
others  round  the  big,  open  fireplace  and  smoked 
a  cigarette  and  skimmed  the  plentiful  weeklies 
until  Tom's  FUght  was  about  due  in.  Jerry 
picked  him  up  again  and  took  him  out  and  showed 
him  the  Flight  when  they  were  pin-points  in  the 
sky,  and  explained  the  process  of  landing  as  they 
came  in. 

Jack  found  his  brother's  machine  had  brought 
home  several  bullet-holes,  and  he  was  oddly 
thrilled  at  sight  of  them — oddly,  because  he 
thought  he  was  completely  blase  about  bullet- 
holes  and  similar  signs  of  battle. 

Tom  made  very  Httle  of  it,  merely  saying  Yes, 
they'd  had  a  scrap,  had  crashed  one  Hun  and 
put  another  couple  down  out  of  control;  and 
who  was  on  for  an  hour  on  the  canal? 

Jack  went  to  the  canal  with  them,  and  found 


134  LIKE  GENTLEMEN 

they  had  there  a  wonderful  boat  built  by  the 
pilots  out  of  planks  they  had  ''found."  The 
boat  held  two  comfortably,  four  uncomfortably, 
and  on  this  occasion  carried  seven.  They  fooled 
away  a  couple  of  hours  very  happily  and  school- 
boyishly,  landed,  and  went  back  at  a  jog-trot 
to  the  'drome.  The  wind  had  changed  and  they 
could  hear  the  guns  now,  heavily  engaged,  by 
the  sound  of  them. 

They  were  back  just  in  time  to  see  a  patrol  go 
up,  and  Tom  hurried  Jack  out  to  watch.  ''  WeVe 
got  another  Squadron's  Major  here,  staying  to 
dinner  to-night,  and  the  patrol  is  taking  off  in 
a  fancy  formation  that's  our  own  special  patent. 
It's  worth  watching.     Come  along." 

It  was  worth  watching,  although  Jack,  per- 
haps, was  not  sufficiently  educated  in  air  work 
to  appreciate  it  properly.  The  Flight  was  drawn 
up  in  Une  facing  into  the  wind,  and,  after  a  pre- 
liminary run  up  of  their  engines,  a  signal  was 
given,  six  pairs  of  chocks  jerked  simultaneously 
clear  of  the  wheels,  and  the  six  machines  began 
to  taxi  forward  over  the  ground,  still  keeping 
in  Une. 

Their  speed  increased  u  itil  they  were  racing 
with  tails  up,  and  then,  suddenly,  the  whole  six 
lifted  together  and  took  the  air,  keeping  their 
straight  hne  and  climbing  steadily.  The  right- 
hand  machine  swept  round  to  the  right,  and  one 
after  another  the  rest  followed  him,  each  banking 
steeply  and,  as  it  seemed  from  the  ground,  heel- 
ing over  until  their  wings  stood  straight  up  and 
down.     As  they  straightened  they  opened  out 


LIKE  GENTLEMEN  135 

and  dropped  into  their  places,  and  the  Flight 
swept  circling  round  above  the  'drome  in  correct 
and  exactly-spaced  formation. 

'^  Pretty   good   show/'    said    Tom    critically. 

"  You  wouldn't  understand  rightly,  Jack,  but 
it's  a  fancy  stunt  we've  never  heard  of  another 
squadron  being  able  to  do.  Sheer  swank,  of 
course,  I'll  admit,  but  rather  sport." 

Later,  Jack  was  able  to  appreciate  better  what 
the  '^  stunt "  was  worth  from  the  admiring  and 
amazed  comments  of  the  much-impressed  visiting 
Major. 

Tea  followed,  and  after  it  the  pilots  drifted  off 
to  such  occupations  or  amusements  as  they 
desired.  Some  lounged  in  the  ante-room,  with 
the  gramophone  singing,  whisthng,  and  band 
playing;  others  went  off  to  the  hangars  to  see 
to  something  being  done  to  their  machines, 
engines,  or  guns;  others  vanished  into  their 
huts,  and,  reappearing  stripped,  began  strenuous 
work  on  a  punching-ball  or  disappeared  over  the 
surrounding  fields  on  a  cross-country  run.  The 
brothers  wandered  round,  and  finished  an  idle 
hour  with  a  brisk  turn  at  the  punching-ball. 

"  Gets  a  good  sweat  up,"  explained  Tom, 
"  and  helps  keep  you  in  condition.  That's  the 
curse  of  this  job — not  getting  any  exercise  unless 
you  do  something  of  this  sort." 

"  Curse  of  it!  "  said  Jack  enviously.  *'  Blest 
if  I  see  much  of  a  curse  of  any  sort  about  it.  It's 
amazing  to  think  anybody  can  be  in  the  middle 
of  a  big  push  in  this  war  and  be  able  to  have 
such  a  ripping  fine  time  of  it." 


136  LIKE  GENTLEMEN 

Tom  laughed.  "  Our  CO.  always  swears  this 
is  the  only  end  of  the  old  war  where  a  man  is 
able  to  live  Hke  a  gentleman  and  fight  like  a 
gentleman,"  he  said.  "  And  I  don't  know  he 
isn't  right." 

^'  It's  the  only  side  I've  seen  where  you  can," 
agreed  Jack.  **  You  certainly  live  Hke  gentle- 
men, anyhow." 

"  Oh,  it's  gentlemanly  enough  fighting,  too," 
said  Tom.  '^  Anyhow,  you  do  go  out  to  scrap 
with  your  face  washed  and  a  clean  shirt  to  your 
back,  and  come  straight  home  to  a  hot  bath 
inside  half  an  hour  after,  if  you  Hke.  And  in 
the  actual  fighting  it's  clean  scrapping — putting 
your  skill  against  the  other  fellow's,  and  the  best 
man  winning,  as  a  rule.  None  of  your  bHnd 
floundering  through  mud  and  shell-fire  for  me, 
thank'ee,  and  getting  scuppered  without  a  notion 
who  did  it  or  how  you  got  it." 

That  evening  they  changed  for  dinner,  Tom 
lending  a  pair  of  slacks  to  his  brother.  "  Might 
as  well,"  said  Tom.  '^  Not  that  it  matters  about 
you,  because  I  could  tell  the  CO.  you  didn't 
bring  kit.  But  he  Hkes  everyone  to  dress  pro- 
perly for  Mess,  and  so  do  we  all.  Dunno  he  isn't 
right,  too.     Now,  will  you  bath  first,  or  shall  I?  " 

The  bath  arrangements  were  explained  to  him 
— the  bath  being  a  curtained-off  corner  of  the 
hut  with  hot  water  in  a  canvas  bath  on  the  floor 
and  a  shower  operated  by  pulHng  a  string  to  a 
tank  on  the  roof. 

"  We're  having  the  band  for  dinner  to-night," 
said  Tom,  as  they  dressed.    "  We  rather  pride 


LIKE  GENTLEMEN  137 

ourselves  on  our  band,  y^know;  eleven  instru- 
ments, and  all  real  good  performers  picked  up 
all  over  the  shop,  and  in  the  Squadron  as  batmen 
or  mechanics  or  something.  Lots  of  'em  were 
part  or  whole  professionals  in  civvy  life/' 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  a  ball  or  a  ban- 
quet or  a  box  at  the  opera  or  something,"  said 
Jack,  as  they  walked  down  to  the  Mess — "  I  feel 
so  amazing  clean  and  groomed  and  sleek.  And 
you  lucky  beggars  have  this  any  old  night,  and 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  war,  too!  " 

The  evening  "  put  the  tin  hat  on  it "  as  he 
said.  There  was  a  champagne  cocktail  before 
dinner,  and  then  the  Major  led  the  way  into  a 
Mess  that  made  Jack  bhnk  his  eyes.  The  table 
down  the  centre  was  big  enough  to  take  the  whole 
score  of  diners  and  of  generous  enough  width 
to  allow  of  stretched  legs  without  kicking  oppo- 
site shins  and  toes.  It  was  covered  with  a  spot- 
less cloth,  glittering  cutlery,  and  shining  glass, 
and  down  the  centre  were  shaded  electrics  and 
vases  made  from  pohshed  brass  shell-cartridges 
filled  with  flowers.  The  CO.  sat  at  the  head  of 
the  table  with  the  Major-guest  on  the  one  side 
and  Jack  on  the  other  with  his  brother  beside 
him.  There  was  a  full-course  dinner  most  excel- 
lently cooked  and  served,  and  there  was  almost 
any  drink  available  you  hked  to  call  for,  although 
Jack  noticed  that  his  brother  and  most  of  the 
others  drank  fresh-made  lemonade  or  something 
of  the  sort. 

''  It's  one  thing  you  have  to  cut  out  pretty 
well,"  explained  Tom.     "  This  game  doesn't  leave 


138  LIKE  GENTLEMEN 

room  for  men  with  anything  but  steady  nerves, 
and  most  of  us  find  little  or  no  liquor  and  not 
too  much  smoking  gives  you  the  longest  life  and 
gets  the  most  Huns.  We're  all  out  for  the  most 
Huns,  y'see,  and  pushing  up  the  Squadron's 
record.  Over  the  hundred  crashed  in  under  six 
months  now  and  we  want  to  pile  it  up.  There's 
hardly  a  man  here  hasn't  got  anything  from  two 
to  a  dozen  a-piece." 

"  Doesn't  seem  to  sit  on  their  consciences," 
said  Jack,  looking  round  the  table  of  happy 
faces  and  listening  to  the  chatter  and  laughter 
that  ran  steadily  through  the  dinner.  Out  in  the 
ante-room  the  band  played  light  and  cheerful 
music. 

"  Some  band,"  said  Jack  admiringly  in  answer 
to  a  remark  from  the  CO.  ^'  Good  as  a  West 
End  Theatre;  makes  me  want  to  get  up  and 
dance,"  tapping  his  foot  in  time  to  the  alluring 
rag  that  the  music  had  just  sHd  off  into. 

"  You  people  evidently  beUeve  in  the  '  eat, 
drink  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow,  etcetera ' 
theory,"  said  the  visiting  Major. 

"  Why  not?  "  said  the  CO.  quickly.  "  Let's 
live  decently  while  we  can,  I  say.  We're  all 
proud  of  the  Squadron,  and  all  keen  to  do  the 
best  we  can  to  make  it  the  best  in  the  Field,  in 
living,  and  feeding,  and  comfort — and  fighting. 
And  the  theory  seems  to  work  all  right." 

"  Looking  at  your  record,"  said  the  other 
Major,  "  it  does." 

They  were  at  the  second  course,  when  half  a 
dozen  pilots  came  in  in  ones  and  twos,  went  to 


LIKE  GENTLEMEN  139 

the  head  of  the  table  and  made  their  formal 
apologies  for  being  late,  and  went  to  their  seats. 
They  were  the  evening  patrol,  and  the  Leader 
took  his  place  near  the  Major's  end  of  the  table. 

"  Anything  doing  to-night?  '^  asked  the  Major 
when  the  Captain  had  been  served  and  com- 
menced his  soup. 

"  Quite  a  brisk  scrap,''  said  the  Captain  pro- 
ceeding industriously  with  his  soup.  "  That's 
what  made  us  so  late.  Chased  a  bunch  of  four- 
teen Albatrii  and  had  twenty  minutes'  scrapping 
with  them.'' 

"  Get  any?  "  asked  the  Major. 

"  Two  crashes  and  three  down  out  of  control. 
Jerry  got  one  crash  and  I  got  the  other.  Makes 
the  Squadron  tally  a  hundred  and  seven,  doesn't 
it?" 

"  Yes,  good  work,"  said  the  CO.,  and  called 
down  the  table  "  I  hear  you  bagged  another 
to-night,  Jerry.     How  many  does  that  make?  " 

"  Hundred  and  seven  to  the  Squadron,  sir," 
said  Jerry,  ''  and  eight  to  me." 

The  FUght  Leader,  hurrying  his  dinner  to 
catch  up  to  the  others,  went  on  to  tell  some  bald 
details  of  the  fight.  Jack  sat  drinking  it  in, 
although  it  was  rather  a  technical  and  air-slangy 
account  for  him  to  understand  properly,  and  all 
the  time  he  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  mind  how 
extraordinary  it  was  that  this  man  and  the  others 
who  half  an  hour  ago  had  been  fighting  for  their 
lives,  shooting  men  down,  hearing  (and  seeing 
as  he  gathered  from  the  story)  bullets  crack  past, 
tearing  home  at  a  hundred  and  odd  miles  an 


140  LIKE  GENTLEMEN 

hour  with  the  reek  and  roar  of  a  big  battle  be- 
neath them,  with  shells  puffing  and  coughing 
about  them  as  they  flew,  should  now  be  sitting, 
washed,  bathed,  cleanly  and  comfortably  dressed, 
at  a  full-course  dinner,  with  flowers  on  the  table 
and  a  good  band  playing  outside.  He  had  seen 
plenty  of  fighting  himself,  but  with  such  a  differ- 
ence, with  such  a  prolonged  misery  of  short  sleep, 
scratch  meals,  hard  physical  work,  living  in  mud 
and  filth  and  dirt  and  stench,  under  constant 
fear  of  death  or  mutilation,  that  this  air-fighting 
appeared  by  contrast — well,  the  CO.  had  it  right, 
*^  Uving  and  fighting  fike  gentlemen." 

The  port  went  round,  followed  by  the  coffee, 
cigarettes,  and  Uqueurs,  the  niceties  of  Mess 
etiquette.  Jack  noticed,  being  very  punctiliously 
observed,  and  no  man  touching  his  port  or  fight- 
ing his  cigarette  before  the  Major  touched  and  fit 
his,  none  moving  from  the  table  until  after  the 
port  had  been  round,  and  so  on.  The  evening 
finished  with  a  couple  of  very  jolly  hours  in  the 
ante-room  where  the  gramophone  took  the 
place  of  the  band  in  alternate  turns  with  musical 
pilots  at  the  piano.  A  group  hung  round  the 
open  fireplace  chatting  and  joking,  another 
round  the  piano  where  one  pilot  played  musical 
pranks,  sang  topical  air  songs,  and  played 
seductive  melodies  that  set  half  a  dozen  couples 
''  ragging  "  round  the  room,  and  two  or  three 
tables  collected  for  Bridge  and  Poker. 

Jack,  revelfing  in  the  comfort  and  pleasant- 
ness of  the  whole  thing,  was  haled  at  last  by 
Jerry  into  a  set  for  Bridge,  and  played  for  an 


LIKE  GENTLEMEN  141 

hour  just  the  sort  of  game  he  liked — good  enough 
to  be  interesting,  free  and  easy  and  talkative 
enough  not  to  be  stiff  a'nd  boringly  businesslike. 

He  was  very  thoughtful  as  he  undressed  for 
bed — a  comfortable  camp  bed,  with  a  soft  pillow, 
and  pyjamas — and  Tom  looked  at  him  with  a 
glimmer  of  a  smile. 

^'Wondering  if  you'll  put  in  for  a  transfer 
to  Flying  Corps?''  he  asked. 

Jack  was  a  little  startled. 

''Well,  something  like  that — yes,"  he  ad- 
mitted. ''You  do  seem  to  have  such  a  ripping 
good  time  of  it,  and  right  bang  in  the  war,  too. 
It's  amazing." 

"'Tisn't  all  pie,  all  the  time,  y'know,"  said 
his  brother  seriously.  "Pretty  strenuous  at 
times." 

Jack  grunted  scornfully,  with  his  mind  on 
what  strenuous  times  in  the  line  meant. 

"We'll  talk  it  over  to-morrow,"  said  Tom. 
"Must  get  a  sleep  now.     I'm  on  dawn  patrol." 

Next  day  was  very  much  like  the  first,  and 
Jack  felt  the  inclination  grow  to  consider  a 
transfer  to  this  life  of  luxury  and  ease.  1 

But  the  afternoon  brought  a  new  side  of  air 
work  to  him.  The  remains  of  a  patrol — three 
machines  out  of  six — straggled  home  with 
riddled  machines  and  the  tale  of  a  hot  fight. 
Jack  gathered  and  sorted  out  and  had  interpre- 
tations of  the  involved  and  technical  details, 
and  they  made  his  blood  run  hot  and  cold  in 
turn.  The  six  had  fought  a  big  formation  of 
fifteen  to  twenty  Huns,  fought  them  fast  and 


142  LIKE  GENTLEMEN 

fiercely  for  a  good  fifteen  minutes,  had  crashed 
five  certainly  and  put  others  down  without  having 
time  to  watch  their  end,  had  routed  and  driven 
east  the  remainder  of  the  formation.  But  they 
had  lost  two  men  crashed.  One  had  his  top 
petrol  tank  holed  and  the  top  plane  set  on  fire. 
He  was  low  down  and  fighting  two  Huns,  and 
he  might  with  luck  have  dived  down  and  made 
a  landing  in  Hunland.  He  preferred  instead 
to  take  one  more  Hun  down  with  him  and  lessen 
the  odds  against  his  fellows,  had  deliberately 
flung  his  machine  on  the  nearest  enemy,  crashed 
into  him,  and  went  hurtling  down,  the  two 
locked  together  and  wrapped  in  roaring  flames. 

Another  had  his  engine  hit,  but  with  water 
spraying  out  from  his  radiator  fought  on  and 
finished  his  individual  combat,  and  put  his  Hun 
down  before  he  attempted  to  turn  out  and  make 
for  the  lines.  He  had  flown  long  enough  after 
receiving  the  damage  to  make  it  a  matter  of 
speculation  whether  his  engine  could  get  him 
home  or  not,  but  he  flung  away  this  last  chance 
by  turning  aside  from  his  homeward  flight  and 
throwing  away  a  couple  of  thousand  feet  of 
height  to  dive  in  to  the  assistance  of  another  of 
our  machines  hard  beset  by  four  enemies.  One 
of  these  he  crippled  and  drove  down,  and  another 
his  divers  on  gave  a  quick  chance  to  the  hard- 
pressed  pilot  to  shoot  down  and  crash.  But  the 
damaged  engine  by  now  was  done,  and  the  pilot 
could  only  turn  his  nose  for  the  lines  and  try  to 
glide  back. 

One  of  the  hostiles  saw  his  chance,  drove  after 


LIKE  GENTLEMEN  143 

him,  dropped  on  his  tail,  pouring  in  burst  after 
burst  of  fire,  hung  to  him  and  followed  him  down 
in  the  spin  which  was  evidently  the  last  desperate 
attempt  to  win  clear,  finally  shot  him  down  and 
crashed  him  as  he  flattened  out. 

A  third  pilot  had  been  badly  wounded  by  a 
burst  of  bullets  which  had  riddled  and  smashed 
one  arm.  He,  too,  might  have  pulled  out  and 
escaped;  and  he,  too,  hung  on  fighting  to  the 
end;  flew  his  machine  lurching,  and  swerving 
home,  landed,  fainted,  and  died  from  loss  of 
blood  before  the  tourniquet  was  well  on  his  arm. 

A  fourth,  with  a  bullet-shattered  foot,  stayed 
in  the  fight  and  took  another  wound  in  the 
shoulder,  and  still  fought  on,  saw  it  out,  and 
came  home — and  went  off  to  the  Casualty  Clear- 
ing Station  with  a  laugh  and  a  jest  on  his  lips 
and  the  certainty  in  his  heart  that  he  was  going 
to  lose  his  foot  or  carry  it  mutilated  and  useless 
for  life.  But  he  refused  to  go  until  notes  had 
been  compared  and  he  could  be  told  their  bag  of 
Huns  and  the  total  it  brought  the  Squadron  up  to. 

What  hit  Jack  hardest  was  that  his  new  but 
firm  friend  Jerry  was  one  of  those  crashed.  And 
only  an  hour  or  two  before  he  had  been  talking 
with  Jerry  and  planning  and  taking  his  advice 
about  joining  up  with  the  R.F.C.,  how  to  apply 
and  how  to  get  quickly  through  his  training,  and 
ways  of  wangling  it  to  get  to  this  Squadron — 
and — jumping  far  into  the  future — how  he, 
Jerry,  would  put  him  up  to  any  amount  of  fight- 
ing tips,  and  how  to  get  your  Hun  and  keep  a 
whole  skin  and  pile  the  Squadron's  record  up. 


144  LIKE  GENTLEMEN 

It  had  all  sounded  so  good  to  Jack,  and  now 
— Jerry  was  gone,  had  fought  his  last  fight, 
had  died  the  death  within  an  hour  of  his  last 
laughing  word  to  Jack  on  the  'drome,  had 
flung  himself  flaming  into  a  coUision  with  his 
enemy  and  paid  out  his  life  for  one  more  crashed 
Hun  to  the  Squadron's  tally.  And  the  other 
one  lost,  the  boy  who  had  thrown  away  his 
chance  by  diving  with  a  "conking"  engine  to 
help  a  friend,  was  the  same  boy  who  had  fooled 
at  the  piano,  had  kept  them  all  giggling  and 
chuckling  at  his  jokes  and  chaff  at  luncli  that 
day;  and  then  had  gone  out  and  played  a  man's 
grim  part  and  sacrificed  himself  to  give  a  friend 
a  fighting  chance. 

That  night  Jack  talked  to  his  brother  and  told 
him  he'd  made  up  his  mind  to  put  in  for  an 
exchange.  '*Yes,  Jerry  told  me  all  that — poor 
old  Jerry,"  he  said,  when  Tom  warned  him  he'd 
been  seeing  the  best  side  of  the  life  in  that 
particular  Squadron,  that  they  were  rather  a — 
well,  swanky  lot  if  you  liked,  but  believed  in 
doing  themselves  well;  that  any  other  Squad- 
ron he  might  go  to  might  be  much  less  particular 
about  how  they  lived  and  might  rough  it  a  lot 
more.  (Which,  by  the  way,  is  very  true;  and 
there  are  many  men  who  have  lived  in  Squad- 
rons at  the  Front  for  many  months  may  scoff 
at  this  description  of  Squadron  life  as  rank 
exaggeration.     It  is  not,  as  others  can  testify.) 

Jack  heard  it  all  out,  but  did  not  alter  his 
determination. 

'^Whatever  Squadron  it  is  you  admit  they 


LIKE  GENTLEMEN  145 

live  better  than  we  do  in  the  line,"  he  said, 
"and  anyhow  that's  not  my  point  now.  I'd 
like  to  get  even  a  bit  with  some  of  that  crowd 
who  downed  poor  Jerry." 

"It  is  better  than  the  line,"  admitted  his 
brother,  "and  whatever  the  Squadron,  at  least 
we  live  decently  and  fight  fairly  and  squarely." 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  "your  C.O.'s  right — live 
and  fight — and,  by  the  Lord,"  he  added  warmly, 
his  mind  on  that  day's  fight,  his  two  friends  and 
the  manner  of  their  end,  "he  might  have  added 
'  die ' — like  gentlemen." 


XII 

''AIR  ACTIVITY'' 

That  "air  activity/'  so  frequently  reported 
and  so  casually  read  in  the  despatches,  means  a 
good  deal  more  than  ''fleets  of  aeroplanes  dark- 
ening the  sky,"  machines  dashing  and  flashing 
around  anywhere  up  to  their  "ceiling''  of 
twenty  odd  thousand  feet,  shooting  holes  in  and 
crashing  each  other,  bombing  and  photographing 
and  contact-patrolling  and  ground-strafing,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it. 

There  is  just  as  much  "air"  activity,  or  if 
you  measure  by  hours,  from  two  to  ten  times  as 
much,  amongst  those  men  whose  sole  occupation 
in  life  is  pushing  other  people  into  the  air  and 
keeping  them  there  until  they  wish  to  come  down, 
and  who  never  have  their  own  two  feet  off  the 
firm  earth.  The  outsider  hardly  thinks  of  this, 
and  there  are  even  a  few  pilots — a  very  few,  as 
one  is  glad  to  know — who  are  apt  to  forget  it, 
while  the  great  majority  of  the  others  don't  or 
can't  very  well  make  much  show  of  their  appre- 
ciation of  or  gratitude  for  the  sheer  hard  labour 
of  the  groundwork  in  a  Squadron  that  keeps 
them  afloat.  I  know  that  most  pilots  will  be 
glad  to  have  even  this  one  little  bit  of  the  lime- 

146 


"AIR  ACTIVITY ^^  147 

light  turned  on  a  class  of  men  who  deserve  a 
good  deal  more  than  they  get. 

No.  00  Squadron  broke  into  the  Air  Activity 
period  a  full  week  before  the  Push  began  on  the 
ground,  but  a  certain  amount  of  '^dud  weather" 
gave  the  pilots  some  intervening  spells  of  rest 
and  gave  the  Squadron  mechanics  a  chance  to 
catch  up  and  keep  level  with  their  work.  But 
in  the  last  few  days  before  the  Push  was  dated 
to  begin,  the  air  work  became  more  strenuous, 
because  the  Huns,  evidently  suspecting  that 
something  was  coming  off,  set  their  air  service 
to  work  trying  to  push  over  and  see  what  was 
going  on  behind  our  lines,  and  to  prevent  our 
air  men  picking  up  information  behind  theirs. 
No.  00  was  a  single-seater  fighting  Squadron, 
and  so  was  one  of  the  ots  whose  mission  in  life 
was  to  down  any  Huns  who  came  over  to  recon- 
noitre or  spot  for  their  guns,  and,  conversely, 
to  patrol  over  Hunland  and  put  out  of  action 
as  many  as  possible  of  the  Hun  fighters  who 
were  up  to  sink  our  machines  doing  artillery 
observing  or  photographing.  The  more  machines 
one  side  can  put  and  keep  in  the  air  the  better 
chance  that  side  has  of  doing  its  work  and  pre- 
venting the  opposition  doing  theirs — it  is  a  pity 
many  aircraft  workers  even  now  don't  seem  to 
understand  the  value  of  this  sheer  weight  of 
numbers — and  since  both  sides  by  this  time  were 
using  their  full  air  strength  it  meant  that  No.  00, 
like  all  the  rest,  was  kept  flying  the  maximum 
number  of  hours  machines  and  pilots  could  stand. 

As  the  work  speeded  up  the  strain  grew  on 


148  "AIR  ACTIVITY" 

pilots  and  machines,  which  also  means  on  the 
mechanics.  Some  of  the  planes  came  home  with 
bullet-holed  fabrics,  shot-through  frames,  and 
damaged  engines.  All  the  holes  had  to  be 
patched,  all  the  frames  had  to  be  mended,  all 
the  engines  had  to  be  repaired.  The  strain  and 
pressure  on  a  flimsy  structure  being  hurtled 
through  the  air  at  speeds  running  from  100  to 
200  miles  per  hour  is  bound  to  result  in  a  certain 
amount  of  working  loose  of  parts,  stretching  of 
stays,  slackening  of  fabrics,  give  and  take  in 
nuts  and  bolts,  yielding  and  easing  of  screws; 
and  since  the  pilot's  and  the  machine's  life  and 
the  Squadron's  efl&ciency  alike  depend  on  every 
one  of  the  hundreds  of  parts  in  a  machine's 
anatomy  being  taut  and  true,  or  free  and  easy- 
running,  as  the  case  may  be,  the  mechanics  began 
to  find  a  full  normal  day's  work  merely  in  the 
overhauling  and  setting  up  of  the  machines, 
apart  altogether  from  fight-damage  repairs. 

Two  days  before  the  Push  began  the  mechanics 
put  in  a  hard  working  day  of  fifteen  hours  out 
of  the  twenty-fom*;  the  day  before  the  Push 
they  started  at  6  a.m.  and  finished  at  1  a.m.  next 
morning — and  with  the  first  patrols  due  to  start 
out  at  dawn.  But  they  finished  with  every 
machine  trued  to  a  hair-line,  braced  and  strung 
to  a  perfection  of  rigidity,  with  engines  running 
as  sweet  as  oil,  and  giving  their  limit  of  revolu- 
tions without  a  hint  of  trouble,  with  every  single 
item  about  them  overhauled,  examined,  adjusted 
and  tested  as  exhaustively  and  completely  as  if 
a  life  hung  on  the  holding  of  every  bolt,  brace, 


"AIR  ACTIVITY"  149 

and  screw,  the  smooth,  clean  working  of  every 
plug,  piston,  and  tappet — as,  indeed,  a  life  would 
hang  that  day. 

The  weather  report  of  the  day  was  not  good, 
but  a  good  half  hour  before  dawn  the  mechanics 
had  the  machines  out  in  line  and  the  pilots  were 
straggling  out  swaddled  in  huge  leather  coats, 
sheepskin-lined  thigh  boots,  furred  helmets  and 
goggled  masks.  But  before  they  arrived  the 
mechanics  had  been  out  a  full  hour,  putting  the 
final  touches  to  the  machines,  warming  up  the 
engines — for  it  was  near  enough  to  winter  for 
the  cold-weather  nights  to  make  an  engine 
sulky  and  tricky  to  start — giving  a  last  look 
round  to  everything. 

The  first  two  Flights  went  off  before  dawn, 
and  the  third  an  hour  after  them.  The 
mechanics  walked  back  into  the  empty  hangars 
which,  after  the  bustle  of  the  last  few  days 
seemed  curiously  dead  and  desolate,  and  then  to 
their  waiting  breakfasts. 

For  some  of  them  the  respite  was  short.  Ten 
minutes  after  the  last  lot  of  machines  had  gone 
there  was  a  shout  for  "  A  "  Flight  men.  They 
hurried  out  to  find  the  CO.  and  the  Flight  Ser- 
geant standing  together  watching  a  machine 
drive  slowly  up  against  the  wind  towards  the 
'drome.  Plainly  something  was  wrong  with 
her;  she  had  an  air  of  struggling,  of  fighting  for 
her  life,  of  being  faint  and  weary  and  almost 
beaten.  It  was  hard  to  say  what  gave  her  this 
curious  look  of  a  ship  with  decks  awash  and  on 
the  point  of  foundering,  of  a  boxer  staggering 


150  "AIR  ACTIVITY" 

about  the  ring  and  trying  to  keep  his  feet.  It 
may  have  been  the  propeller  running  so  slowly 
that  it  could  be  clearly  seen,  or  the  fact  that  she 
was  losing  height  almost  as  fast  as  she  was 
making  way;  but  whatever  it  was,  it  was  un- 
mistakable. 

As  she  drew  near  to  the  edge  of  the  landing 
ground  it  was  evident  that  it  would  be  a  toss-up 
whether  she  made  it  or  touched  ground  in  a 
patch  of  rough,  uncleared  field.  The  mechanics 
set  off,  running  at  top  speed  to  where  she  was 
going  to  touch;  the  CO.  and  the  Flight  Sergeant 
followed  close  behind  them.  They  saw  the  pilot 
make  one  last  effort  to  lift  her  and  clear  a  sunk 
road  and  bank  that  ran  along  the  edge  of  the 
landing  ground.  He  lifted  her  nose, . . .  and  she 
almost  stalled  and  fell;  he  thrust  her  nose  down 
again,  .  .  .  and  she  hung,  .  .  .  lurched,  .  .  .  slid 
forward  and  in  to  the  bank.  Would  she  clear 
.  .  .  would  she  ... 

Then,  in  an  instant,  it  was  over.  The  wheels 
just  caught  the  edge  of  the  bank,  her  tail  jerked 
up  and  her  nose  down, .  . .  and  the  runners  heard 
the  splintering  crash  of  her  breaking  under- 
carriage, of  her  ''  prop  "  hitting  and  shivering 
to  matchwood,  her  fabrics  ripping  and  tearing. 
She  stood  straight  up  on  her  nose,  heeled  over, 
and  fell  on  her  side  with  fresh  noises  of  crackling, 
tearing,  and  splintering  from  her  wrecked  wings. 
Up  to  now  the  runners  had  thought  of  the 
machine,  but  in  the  instant  of  her  hitting,  their 
thoughts  jumped  to  the  pilot  and — would  he 
smash  with  her,  or  would  the  wreck  catch  fire? 


"AIR  ACTIVITY"  161 

But  before  they  reached  the  piled  tangle  of  wood 
and  fabric  they  saw  a  figure  crawl  out  from  under 
it,  stand  upright,  and  mechanically  brush  the 
dirt  from  his  knees.  They  found  he  was  un- 
touched. 

"  Got  a  bullet  in  her  engine  somewhere,  sir,'' 
he  told  the  Major.  "  I  caught  a  fair  old  dose 
from  the  machine-guns,  and  had  the  planes 
riddled;  then  this  one  got  her,  and  I  couldn't 
get  my  revs.,  and  thought  I'd  better  push  her 
home.     Poor  old  'bus." 

"  Another  one  coming,  sir,"  said  the  Flight 
Sergeant  suddenly,  and  pointed  to  a  machine 
whirling  towards  them  at  a  thousand  feet  up. 
There  was  nothing  wrong  with  this  one,  anyhow. 
She  roared  in  over  their  heads,  banked  and 
swung,  slid  down  smoothly  and  gracefully, 
touched  and  ran  and  slowed,  and  came  to  rest 
with  the  engine  just  running.  It  whirred  up 
into  speed  again  and  brought  her  taxi-ing  in 
towards  the  sheds  and  the  mechanics  running 
to  meet  her.  The  Major  and  the  pilot,  walking 
back  towards  the  sheds,  were  talking  of  the 
show:  "  Something  terriff.,  sir — never  saw  such 
a  blaze  of  a  barrage — and  the  place  fair  stiff 
with  machine-guns.  Yes,  crowds  of  Huns — and 
ours — hardly  pick  a  way  without  bumping — I 
put  a  good  burst  into  one  Albatross — didn't 
see " 

The  Major  interrupted:  "  Can  you  make  out 
the  letter — ah,  there,  *  K,'  "  as  the  machine, 
taxi-ing  into  the  sheds,  slewed,  and  they  saw  the 
big  "  K  "  on  her  side. 


152  "AIR  ACTIVITY" 

"  'The  Kiddie/  ''  said  the  pilot.  "  Morton's 
'bus.     Seemed  to  be  running  strong  enough." 

They  quickened  their  pace,  the  Major  with  a 
growing  fear  that  turned  to  certainty,  as  they 
saw  men  come  from  the  sheds,  clamber  up  on  the 
machine,  stoop  over  the  pilot,  and  begin  to  lift 
him. 

They  found  Morton  hit  in  the  foot  and  badly. 
But  before  he  was  well  clear  of  the  machine  he 
was  laughing  and  asking  for  a  cigarette.  '^  Yes, 
I  stopped  one.  Major;  but  it  doesn't  feel  too 
bad.     Hullo,  Solly,  what's  yours?  " 

"  Engine  hit,  conked  out,  crashed  her  edge  of 
the  'drome  here,"  said  Solly  hurriedly.  '^  I  say. 
Major,  can  I  take  '  The  Kiddie  '  and  go  back? 
I'm  all  right,  and  so  is  she — isn't  she,  Morton?  " 

"  Better  take  a  rest,"  said  the  Major.  **  After 
a  crash  like  that " 

But  Solly  argued,  protested  so  eagerly,  that 
the  Major  gave  in.  The  mechanics  bustled  and 
swarmed  about  "  The  Kiddie,"  filling  the  oil 
and  petrol  tanks,  securing  her  light  bombs  on 
the  racks  iStted  under  her,  replacing  the  expended 
rounds  of  machine-gun  ammunition.  And  before 
Morton  had  finished  his  smoke  or  had  the  boot 
and  sock  cut  from  his  foot,  Solly  was  off.  One 
might  have  imagined  "  The  Kiddie  "  as  eager  as 
himself,  her  engine  starting  up  at  the  first  swing 
of  the  prop,  roaring  out  in  the  deep,  full-noted 
song  that  tells  of  perfect  firing  and  smooth  run- 
ning. Solly  ran  her  up,  eased  off,  waved  his 
hand  to  the  two  men  standing  holding  the  long 
cords  of  the  chocks  at  her  wheels.    The  chocks 


"AIR  ACTIVITY"  153 

were  jerked  clear,  "  The  Kiddie  '^  roared  up  into 
her  top  notes  again,  gathered  way,  and  moved 
out  in  a  sweeping  circle  that  brought  her  into 
the  wind,  steadied  down,  gathered  speed  again 
across  the  grass,  lifted  her  tail,  and  raced  another 
hundred  yards,  rose  and  hoicked  stra'ght  up  as 
if  she  were  climbing  a  ladder.  At  a  couple  of 
hundred  feet  up  she  straightened  out  and  shot 
away  flat,  and  was  off  down  wind  like  a  bullet. 

Then  the  "  air  activity  '^  hit  the. Squadron  on 
the  ground.  A  tender  and  accompanying  gang 
sped  out  to  the  crashed  machine  and  set  about 
the  business  of  picking  it  up  and  bringing  it 
home;  telephone  messages  buzzed  in  and  out 
of  the  Squadron  office;  another  tender  rolled 
out  of  the  'drome  and  started  racing  "  all  out  '* 
with  a  pilot  bound  for  the  Park,  where  a  new 
machine  would  be  handed  over  to  replace  the 
crash. 

Before  the  crashed  machine  was  in,  the  first 
lot  out  began  to  home  to  the  'drome.  One  by 
one  they  swept  in,  curved,  slid  down,  and  slanted 
smoothly  on  to  the  ground,  and  rolled  over  to 
the  hangars.  There  was  hardly  one  without  a 
bullet-hole  somewhere  in  her;  there  were  some 
with  scores.  Planes  were  riddled,  bracing  and 
control  wires  cut,  fuselage  fabric  and  frames 
ripped  and  holed  and  cracked,  propellers  cleanly 
shot  through.  This  was  at  8  o'clock — and  half 
of  them  were  due  to  be  up  again  at  1,  and  the 
others  at  2.  Every  possible  arrangement  had 
been  made  for  quick  repairs  and  replacements, 
tools  laid  ready,  spares  brought  out  and  placed 


154  "AIR  ACTIVITY^^ 

to  hand.  The  mechanics  fell  on  the  damaged 
machines  like  wolves  on  a  sheepfold.  Fuselages 
were  ripped  open,  broken  wires  and  controls  torn 
out,  badly  damaged  planes  unshipped  and  slung 
aside,  snapped  and  dangling  bracing  wires 
hurriedly  unscrewed,  suspected  longerons  and 
ribs  stripped  and  bared  for  examination,  holed 
or  cracked  propellers  removed.  In  an  hour 
anyone  walking  into  the  hangars  might  have 
thought  he  was  in  an  airship-breaker's  yard, 
and  was  looking  at  a  collection  almost  fit  for  the 
scrap-heap.  But  at  the  appointed  time  the 
machines  of  the  first  Flight  were  ready,  although 
it  would  take  a  decent-sized  booklet  to  detail 
the  nature  and  method  of  the  repairs  and  replace- 
ments. 

But  every  hole  in  a  fabric  had  been  patched, 
spare  wing  and  tail  planes  had  been  shipped, 
new  wires  rove,  damaged  propellers  replaced  by 
new  ones,  fuselage  covers  laced  up,  guns  examined 
and  cleaned.  At  a  quarter  to  one  the  pilots 
came  from  an  early  lunch  and  found  their 
machines  ready,  fabrics  whole  and  taut,  wires 
and  stays  tight-strung  and  braced,  engines  tuned 
up  and  ready,  everything  examined  and  tried 
and  tested,  and  pronounced  safe  and  fit.  And 
"  The  Kiddie,"  that  had  come  in  a  full  hour 
after  the  others,  and  had  several  bracing  and 
control  wires  cut,  and  twenty-seven  bullet  marks 
to  show  for  her  two  trips,  was  amongst  the  first 
to  take  off  with  the  others. 

As,  one  by  one,  the  first  Flight  went  up,  the 
men  were  hard  at  work  on  the  machines  of  the 


"AIR  ACTIVITY''  155 

second,  hoisting  up  tins  of  petrol  and  oil,  and 
pouring  them  into  the  tanks,  reloading  the 
bomb-racks,  packing  away  fresh  stores  of  am- 
munition, trying  and  running  up  the  engines. 

At  sharp  two  the  second  FUght  took  off,  and 
at  three  the  third  (which  had  also  brought  home 
a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  injuries)  followed 
them  to  the  tick  of  time.  But  although  all  three 
Fhghts  were  out,  the  mechanics,  with  no  faintest 
hope  of  a  rest,  set  hastily  about  the  business  of 
mending  and  repairing  those  planes  and  parts 
which  had  been  removed,  and  were  now,  or  would 
be  when  they  were  done  with,  complete  and 
ready  spares. 

They  kept  hard  as  they  could  go  at  it  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  and  then  the  first  FHght  began 
to  drop  in  on  them.  One  was  missing — "crashed 
in  No  Man's  Land'' — another  pilot  reported, 
"Seemed  to  go  down  under  control  all  right," 
and  another  was  lost  in  Hunland. 

The  third  FHght  had  even  worse  luck.  Two 
were  missing,  nothing  known  of  them,  so  appar- 
ently lost  over  the  line,  and  another  came  circling 
back  with  her  under-carriage  swinging  and  twist- 
ing loose  and  hanging  by  a  stay.  On  the  ground 
they  noticed  the  casualty,  and,  fearing  the  pilot 
might  not  be  aware  of  the  extent  of  the  damage 
and  try  to  land  without  calculating  on  it,  they 
fired  a  fight  and  signalled  him. 

But  it  was  quickly  evident  from  the  caution  of 
his  manoeuvres  that  he  knew,  and  he  came  down 
and  pancaked  as  carefully  as  he  could.  He 
crashed,  of  course,  but,  as  crashes  go,  not  too 


156  "AIR  ACTIVITY^^ 

badly.  Everyone  was  watching  him  with  bated 
breath.  As  he  touched  the  ground — cr-r-rash 
— a  tongue  of  flame  Hcked  and  flickered,  and 
instantly  fouph  it  leaped  in  a  thirty-foot  gust  of 
fire,  dropped,  and  before  the  horrified  watchers 
could  move  tongue  or  foot,  blazed  up  again  in  a 
roaring,  quivering  pillar  of  fire.  Then,  as  some 
scuffled  for  fire-extinguishers  and  others  ran 
with  vague  and  crazy  ideas  of  dragging  the  pilot 
out,  they  saw  a  figure  reel  out  from  behind  the 
blaze,  throw  himself  down,  and  roll  on  the  grass. 
He  was  burned  about  the  hands  and  face, 
had  a  skin-deep  cut  across  his  brow,  a  broken 
httle  finger — nothing  that  a  few  dressings  and 
a  spHnt  would  not  make  as  good  as  ever.  He 
had  leaped  out  as  he  landed. 

His  amazing  escape  brightened  the  shadow  that 
would  have  lain  on  the  Squadron  Mess  that  night 
from  the  loss  of  the  other  pilots,  and  for  the  hour 
of  dinner  the  talk  ran  free  and  mixed  with  jests 
and  bursts  of  laughter.  In  the  ante-room  there 
was  another  half-hour's  talk  over  the  events  of 
the  day,  a  medley  of  air  slang  about  revving,  and 
Flaming  Onions,  and  split-arming,  and  props, 
and  mags.,  and  Immelman  Turns,  and  short 
bursts,  and  Hun-Huns,  and  conking,  and  all  the 
rest.  Then,  about  9.30,  the  pilots  began  to 
drift  off  to  bed,  and  at  10.30  the  mess  rooms  were 
clear  and  the  lights  out. 

But  in  the  hangars,  the  armoury,  the  carpentry 
and  machine  shops,  the  electrics  were  at  full 
blaze,  the  mechanics  were  hustling  and  busthng 
for  dear  life.    It  grew  colder  as  the  night  wore 


"AIR  ACTIVITY"  157 

on,  and  by  midnight  men  who  had  been  working 
in  shirt-sleeves  began  to  put  on  their  jackets. 
By  2  a.m.  they  were  shivering  as  they  worked, 
especially  those  blue-Hpped  and  stiff-fingered 
ones  who  had  to  stand  still  over  a  lathe  or  sit 
crouched,  stitching  and  fumbling  with  numb 
fingers  at  fabric  and  tape  and  string.  Again  the 
hangars  were  filled  with  a  welter  of  stripped  and 
wrecked-looking  outlines  of  machines,  and  all 
the  apparent  lumbe^.  of  dismantled  parts  and 
waiting  spares.  About  3  and  4  a.m.  tenders 
began  to  rumble  in  on  their  return  from  various 
errands,  and  at  5  orderUes  came  from  the  cook- 
house with  dixies  of  hot  tea.  The  Flight  Ser- 
geants confabbed  and  compared  notes  then  and 
sent  half  the  mechanics  off  to  bed  and  set  the 
other  half  to  work  again;  and  by  6  the  ma- 
chines were  taking  decently  recognisable  shape. 
And  at  half  an  hour  before  dawn  again  the 
machines  of  the  first  Fhght  were  out  and 
ready,  with  engines  run  up  and  warmed,  and 
tanks  full,  and  ammunition  and  bombs  in 
place,  waiting  for  the  shivering  pilots  stumbHng 
out  to  them  in  the  dark.  They  were  gone  before 
the  first  blink  of  Hght  paled  the  gun-flashes  in 
the  sky,  and  they  were  barely  gone  before  there 
came  dropping  into  the  'drome  the  pilots  who 
had  gone  off  the  night  before  to  fly  in  new 
machines  to  replace  the  wastage.  A  second 
Flight  went  at  9,  and  then  the  mechanics,  who 
had  turned  in  at  5.30,  were  turned  out  again  and 
the  others  sent  to  bed.  They  had  an  even 
shorter   spell   of   rest,    because   new   machines 


158  "AIR  ACTIVITY^^ 

somehow  require  an  appalling  amount  of  woik 
and  overhauling  and  tuning  up  before  any  self- 
respecting  Squadron  considers  them  fit  to  carry 
their  pilots. 

All  that  day  the  yesterday's  performance  was 
repeated,  with  the  addition  that  parties  had  to 
be  sent  off  in  tenders  to  bring  in  machines  that 
had  made  forced  landings  away  from  the  'drome 
and  were  unfit  to  fly  home.  The  mechanics, 
dismissed  for  an  hour  at  dinner-time  and  an 
hour  at  tea-time,  spent  about  ten  minutes  over 
each  meal,  and  the  rest  in  sleep.  They  needed 
it,  for  that  night  they  had  no  sleep  at  all,  had 
to  drive  their  work  to  the  limit  of  their  speed 
to  get  the  machines  ready  for  the  pilots  to  take 
in  the  morning.  That  day  there  were  more 
crashes,  mild  ones  and  complete  write-offs,  and 
it  is  hard  to  say  which  the  weary  mechanics 
loathed  the  most.  The  pilots  had  amazing  luck. 
Man  after  man  was  shot  down,  but  managed 
to  glide  back  to  our  side  of  the  lines,  crash  his 
machine,  crawl  out  of  the  splintered  wreckage, 
and  make  his  way  by  devious  routes  back  to  the 
Squadron — to  take  another  machine  as  soon 
as  it  was  ready,  and  go  out  again  next  day. 

For  four  days  this  sort  of  thing  continued. 
In  that  time  the  mechanics  averaged  twenty  and 
a  half  hours'  driving  hard  work  a  day,  the  shop 
electrics  were  never  out,  the  lorry-shop  lathe, 
with  relays  running  it  never  ceased  to  turn;  the 
men  ate  their  food  at  the  benches  as  they  worked, 
threw  themselves  down  in  corners  of  the  hangars 
and  under  the  benches,  and  snatched  odd  hours 


"AIR  ACTIVITY'^  159 

of  sleep  between  a  Flight  going  out  and  another 
coming  in. 

By  the  mercy,  dud  weather  came  on  the  fifth 
day,  driving  rain  and  blanketting  mist,  and  the 
mechanics — no,  not  rested,  but  spurted  again 
and  cleared  up  the  debris  of  past  days,  repaired, 
refitted,  and  re-rigged  their  machines  in  readi- 
ness for  the  next  call,  whenever  it  might  come. 
At  the  finish,  about  midnight  of  the  fourth  day, 
some  of  them  had  to  be  roused  from  sleeping  as 
they  stood  or  sat  at  their  work;  one  man  fell 
asleep  as  he  stood  working  the  forge  bellows 
and  tumbled  backwards  into  a  tub  of  icy  water. 

Then  they  reeled  and  stumbled  to  their  beds, 
and  again  by  the  grace — since  once  asleep  it  is 
doubtful  if  mortal  man  could  have  wakened 
them — the  sixth  day  was  also  dud,  and  the 
mechanics  slept  their  fill,  which  on  the  average 
was  somewhere  about  the  round  of  the  clock. 

By  then  the  fury  of  the  battle  assault  had 
died  down,  the  Squadron's  duties  were  eased, 
and  the  mechanics  dropped  to  a  normal  battle 
routine  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours  a  day. 

The  Air  Activity  speeded  up  again  after  a 
few  days  of  this,  and  from  then  on  for  another 
fortnight  the  men  in  the  air  were  putting  in  two 
and  three  patrols  a  day  and  with  some  of  the 
Artillery  Observing  machines  in  the  air  for  four 
and  four  and  a  half  hours  at  a  time,  while  the  men 
on  the  ground  in  the  Squadrons  were  kept  at  full 
stretch  and  driving  hard  night  and  day  to  main- 
tain their  machines'  efficiency.  No.  OO's  me- 
chanics did  an  average  of  nineteen  to  twenty 


160  "AIR  ACTIVITY" 

hours  work  a  day  for  fifteen  days,  and  it  is  prob- 
able that  if  the  full  fact  were  known  so,  or  nearly 
so,  did  the  mechanics  of  most  of  the  other 
Squadrons  on  that  front.  For,  as  it  always  does 
in  prolonged  fine  weather  and  continued  air 
work,  the  **air  supremacy"  became  much  more 
than  a  matter  of  the  superiority  of  the  fighters 
or  fliers,  dropped  down  to  a  race  between  the 
German  mechanics  and  our  own,  their  ability 
to  stand  the  pace,  to  work  the  longest  hours, 
to  put  in  the  best  and  the  most  work  in  the  least 
time,  to  keep  the  most  machines  fit  to  take  the  air. 
The  workshops  at  Home  play  a  bigger  and 
much  more  important  part  in  this  struggle 
than  ever  they  have  known,  and  are  in  fact 
fighting  their  fight  against  the  German  shops 
just  as  much  as  their  air  men  are  fighting  the 
Hun  fliers.  A  constant  and  liberal  supply  of 
spares  and  parts  needed  for  quick  repair  ob- 
viously cuts  down  the  Squadron's  work  and 
better  enables  them  to  keep  pace  with  the  job, 
and  time  and  again  in  this  period  the  Squadron 
mechanics  were  forced  to  work  long  hours  filing 
and  hammering  and  turning  and  tinkering  by 
hand  to  repair  and  improvise  parts  which  should 
have  been  there  ready  to  their  hand.  As  the 
struggle  ran  on  it  became  plainer  day  by  day 
that  our  men  were  gaining  the  upper  hand,  not 
only  in  the  fighting — they  can  alvaYS  do  that — 
but  in  the  maintenance  of  macliir,i^'s  in  the  air. 
The  number  of  ours  dropped,  perhaps,  but  the 
Huns'  dropped  faster  and  faster,  until  our  patrols 
were  entirely  "top  dog.''     The  pilots  will  be 


"AIR  ACTIVITY"  161 

the  first  to  admit  the  part  their  mechanics  played 
in  this  victory. 

Through  all  this  strenuous  time  '^The  Kiddie/' 
for  instance,  played  her  full  part.  Time  and 
again  her  pilot  brought  her  in  riddled  with 
bullets,  with  so  many  controls  and  fljdng-  and 
landing-wires  and  struts  cut  through,  that  it 
was  only  because  she  was  in  the  first  place  well 
and  truly  built,  and  in  the  second  place,  so 
keenly  and  carefully  looked  after,  that  Solly 
was  able  to  nurse  her  back  and  land  her  on  the 
'drome.  And  always,  no  matter  how  badly 
damaged  she  came  in,  she  was  stripped,  over- 
hauled, repaired,  and  ready  for  action  when  the 
time  came  round  for  her  next  patrol;  and  always 
the  work  was  done  so  thoroughly  and  well  that 
she  went  out  as  good,  as  reliable,  as  fit  to  fly 
for  her  hfe,  as  any  'bus  could  be. 

In  the  first  week  of  the  show,  which  was  the 
most  strenuous  period  just  described,  Solly 
Colquhoun  got  a  MiHtary  Cross  for  his  share  of 
the  show,  and  on  first  receiving  word  of  it  the 
Major  sent  for  him  to  come  to  the  ofiice,  and 
gave  him  the  news  and  his  congratulations. 

'^May  I  borrow  the  message,  sir?"  said 
Solly  Colquhoun.  "I'll  bring  it  back  in  five 
minutes." 

The  Major  gave  him  the  telegram. 

"Off  you  go,"  he  said  laughingly.  "Off  to 
raise  the  mess,  I  suppose.  Get  along.  I'll  be 
over  to  wet  the  Cross  with  you  in  a  minute.  Tell 
the  Mess  Sergeant  to  get  the  fizz  ready  that  I 
had  in." 


162  ''AIR  ACTIVITY" 

But  Solly  had  not  gone  to  rouse  the  mess. 
He  went  at  a  hard  trot  straight  to  the  Flight 
hangars. 

^^Fhght,"  he  yelled  as  he  neared  them. 
'^FH-i-ght!  Where's  the  FHght  Sergeant?  Oh, 
here,  FHght — I  want  you  and  my  rigger  and  my 
fitter.     Fetch  them  quick.  *' 

They  came  swearing  under  their  breaths. 
'*The  poor  old  'Kiddie'  for  the  air  again," 
said  the  rigger.  ''Done  her  whack  this  trip, 
hasn't  she?"  returned  the  fitter. 

"Look  here,"  said  Solly  abruptly,  hardly 
waiting  for  them  to  come  to  a  halt  before  him. 
"Just  read  that  wire,  will  you?  ...  I  brought  it 
straight  here.  You're  the  first  in  the  Squadron 
to  know.  I  wanted  you  to  be,  and  I  wanted 
just  to  say  thank  you  to  you  fellows  for  getting 
me  this  Cross.  I  know  what  'Kiddie'  has  stood 
up  to,  and  why.  I  know  what  you  did,  .  .  .  and 
.  .  .  well,  thank  you." 

He  shook  hands  awkwardly  but  very  heartily 
while  the  men  stammered  congratulations  and 
disclaimers  of  any  reason  for  thanks.  "Must 
beetle  off,"  said  Solly.  "Promised  to  take  this 
paper  over.  Tell  the  other  men,  will  you?  A 
MiUtary  Cross  for  our  FHght.  And  thank  you 
again." 

He  turned  to  hurry  out,  but,  passing  "The 
Kiddie,"  stabled  there  with  her  fore-end  swathed 
and  blanketted,  her  sides  sleek  and  glossy  and 
shining,  taut  and  trim,  spotless  and  speckless 
as  the  day  she  came  from  her  makers,  he  halted 
and  ran  a  fondHng  hand  down  her  rounded  back. 


"AIR  ACTIVITY";  163 

"Thank  you  too,  'Kiddie/"  he  said,  nodded 
to  the  Sergeant,  *'I  got  a  good  old  'bus,  Flight,^' 
turned,  and  ran  off. 

"A  d n   good   'bus,"  said  the  Sergeant, 

'^and  a  d n  good  man  flying  her." 


XIII 

THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER 

The  CO.  was  showing  a  couple  of  friends  from 
the  infantry  round  the  Squadron,  and  while 
they  were  in  the  hangars  having  a  look  at  the 
machines — one  of  our  latest  type  fighting  scouts 
— a  pilot  came  to  them  on  the  run,  and  hardly 
pausing  to  make  a  jerky  salute,  spoke  hastily: 
'^Message  just  come  in  by  'phone,  sir,  that 
there's  a  Hun  two-seater  over  our  lines  near 
Rorke's  Camp,  and  will  you  warn  the  Flight 
when  they  go  up  presently  to  look  out  for  him. 
And  if  you  don't  mind,  sir,  I'd  like  to  go  up  at 
once  myself  and  have  a  shot  at  him." 

The  Major  hesitated  a  moment;  then  "Right," 
he  said,  and  with  a  quick  "Thanks"  the  pilot 
whipped  round  and  ran  off. 

"Might  walk  over  and  see  him  start,"  said 
the  CO.  "He'll  be  gone  in  a  minute.  Always 
has  his  bus  standing  by  all  ready.  He's  our 
star  pilot — queer  little  chap — always  desper- 
ately keen  for  Huns,  and  makes  any  number  of 
lone-hand  hunts  for  'em.  Crashed  nearly  forty 
to  date,  the  last  brace  before  breakfast  yester- 
day." 

"Hope  it  didn't  spoil  his  appetite,"  said  one 
of  the  visitors. 

164 


THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER  165 

''Spoil  it!'^  The  CO.  laughed.  "Gave  him 
one,  rather.  You  don't  know  him,  but  I  tell  you 
he'd  sooner  kill  a  Hun  than  eat,  any  day.  We 
call  him  'The  Little  Butcher'  here,  because  he 
has  such  a  purposeful,  business-Uke  way  of  going 
about  his  work." 

They  came  to  The  Little  Butcher  as  he  was 
scrambUng  aboard  his  machine.  He  was  too 
busy  to  glance  at  them,  and  the  two  visitors, 
looking  at  the  thin,  dark,  eager  face,  watching 
the  anxious  impatience  to  be  off,  evident  in 
every  look  and  movement,  saw  something 
sinister,  unpleasant  in  him  and  his  haste  to  get 
to  his  kill.  Their  impressions  were  rather 
strengthened  after  The  Little  Butcher  had 
gone  with  a  rush  and  a  roar,  and  they  had 
asked  the  CO.  a  few  more  questions  about  him. 

"No,  not  a  tremendous  amount  of  risk  for 
him  this  trip,"  said  the  CO.  "Y'see,  he's  on 
a  'bus  that's  bettei;  than  their  best,  and  can 
outfly  and  outstunt  anything  he's  Hkely  to 
meet.  He  knows  his  job  thoroughly,  and  it's 
a  fairly  safe  bet  that  if  he  finds  his  Hun  his 
Hun  is  cold  meat." 

Now,  both  the  visitors  had  been  fighting  for. 
rather  a  long  time,  had  few  squeamish  feelings 
left  about  killing  Huns,  and  were  not  much 
given  to  sparing  pity  for  them.  And  yet  they 
both,  as  they  admitted  after  to  each  other,  felt 
a  vague  stirring  of  something  very  Uke  pity  for 
those  two  German  airmen  up  there  unaware  of 
the  death  that  was  hurtling  towards  them. 

"I'm  rather  changing  my  notions  of  this  air- 


166  THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER 

fighting,"  said  one.  "I  always  thought  it  rather 
a  sporting  game,  but " 

''So  it  is  to  a  good  many,"  said  the  CO. 
*'But  there's  nothing  sporting  about  it  to  The 
Little  Butcher.     He's  out  for  blood  every  time." 

''Seems  to  me,"  said  one,  when  the  CO.  had 
left  them  to  go  and  see  the  FUght  get  ready, 
"this  Little  Butcher  of  theirs  is  well  named,  and 
is  rather  an  unpleasant  sort  of  Httle  devil." 

"I  can't  say,"  admitted  the  other,  "that  the 
idea  appeals  to  me  of  going  off,  as  it  seems  he's 
doing,  to  shoot  down  a  couple  of  men  in  cold 
blood.  Butchering  is  about  the  right  word. 
I'm  out  to  kill  Germans  myself,  but  I  can't  say 
I  Hke  doing  it,  much  less  gloat  over  the  prospect, 
as  this  youngster  appears  to  do." 

Their  unfavourable  impression  of  The  Little 
Butcher  was  so  much  stronger  even  than  they 
knew  that  it  really  gave  them  a  grim  sense  of 
satisfaction  when  the  CO.  told  them  later  that 
word  had  just  come  in  that  there  were  two  Huns 
where  one  had  been  reported. 

"Nasty  surprise  for  your  Little  Butcher," 
said  one,  "if  he  bumps  into  them.  But  I  sup- 
pose he'll  see  them  in  time  and  wait  for  the 
FUght  to  help  him." 

"Not  he,"  said  the  CO.  "He'll  tackle  the 
two  quick  enough,  and  probably  outfly  'em  and 
get  one  or  both.  Sheer  off  from  a  chance  of 
crashing  two  Huns  instead  of  one?    Not  much." 

This  was  late  afternoon  or  early  evening,  and 
the  two  heard  the  story  of  the  fight  that  night, 
before  and  during  dinner,  between  courses  and 


THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER  167 

mouthfuls  of  food,  over  cigarettes  and  coffee, 
in  snatches  and  patches,  in  answers  to  questions 
and  in  translations  of  air  terms  they  did  not 
clearly  follow.  And  again  their  impression  of 
The  Little  Butcher  grew  firmer,  that  he  was  ''a 
murderous  little  devil"  and  ^'a  cold-blooded 
young  brute."  There  was  no  mistaking  in  The 
Little  Butcher's  telUng  his  huge  satisfaction  in 
his  kill,  his  fretting  impatience  when  he  thought 
he  might  be  baulked  of  his  prey,  his  eagerness  to 
finish  his  work;  and  frankly  the  two  did  not  Hke 
it  or  him. 

When  he  had  gone  off  that  afternoon,  he  had 
flown  arrow-straight  for  the  locality  the  Hun 
was  reported  in,  cHmbing  in  a  long  slant  as  he 
went,  looking  out  eagerly  for  any  sign  of  his 
quarry.  He  found  them — or,  as  he  still  thought, 
the  one — by  sighting  the  puffing  bursts  of  our 
Archie  shells,  and  took  quick  stock  of  the 
position.  The  sun  was  still  high  and  in  the 
south-west;  the  Huns  almost  due  south  of  him. 
His  great  anxiety  was  to  approach  unseen  to 
such  a  distance  as  would  prevent  the  Hun 
escaping  on  catching  sight  of  him,  so  he  swung 
wide  to  his  left  to  gain  the  cover  of  a  slow  drift- 
ing cloud  that  might  allow  him  to  come  closer 
without  being  seen.  He  passed  behind  and 
clear  of  it,  and  continued  his  circle,  south 
now  and  bearing  west  towards  another  cloud, 
and  as  he  flew  he  stared  hard  towards  the  puffing 
shell-bursts  and  made  out  the  tiny  dots  that  he 
knew  were  two  machines.  He  was  sure  they 
were  both  Huns,  because  the  way  they  circled 


168  THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER 

and  flew  about  each  other  without  any  move- 
ments of  a  fight  made  it  clear  they  were  not 
opponents.  The  Archie  shells  wrote  them  down 
Huns. 

With  the  second  cloud  safely  between  him  and 
them,  The  Little  Butcher  swung  and  raced 
towards  the  two,  reached  the  back  of  the  cloud, 
and  went  laddering  up  towards  its  upper  and 
western  edge.  He  figured  they  could  not  be 
more  than  a  mile  from  him  then,  but  to  locate 
them  exactly  and  make  his  best  plan  of  attack 
he  skirted  round  the  side  of  the  cloud — a  thick, 
solid,  white  cotton-woolly  one — until  he  caught 
sight  of  them. 

The  instant  he  did  so  he  plunged  into  the 
cloud  and  out  of  sight.  He  had  kept  so  close 
to  it  that  the  one  turn  of  his  wrist,  the  one  kick 
on  his  rudder,  flung  him  side-sUpping  into  it, 
to  circle  back  and  out  clear  behind  it  again. 
He  looked  down  and  round  carefully  for  sight 
of  any  of  our  machines  that  might  be  coming 
up  to  interrupt  his  work  and  perhaps  scare  off 
his  quarry,  but  saw  none.  But  on  the  clear  sun- 
lit ground  far  below  he  saw  a  puff  of  smoke  flash 
out,  and  then  another  close  beside  the  hutments 
of  Rorke^s  Camp,  and  concluded  the  two  Huns 
were  '^ doing  a  shoot,''  were  observing  for  their 
artillery  and  directing  the  fire  of  their  guns  on 
to  points  below  them.  It  gave  him  the  better 
chance  of  a  surprise  attack,  because  at  least  one 
man's  attention  on  each  of  the  machines  must 
be  taken  up  in  watching  the  fall  of  the  shells. 
The  Little  Butcher  revived  his  hope  of  bagging 


THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER  169 

the  two,  a  hope  that  at  first  had  begun  to  fade 
in  the  belief  that  one  might  bolt  while  he  was 
downing  the  other. 

The  worst  of  the  position  now  was  that  the 
two  were  rather  widely  separated,  that  his 
attack  on  the  one  might  bolt  the  other,  and 
that  the  second  might  reach  the  safety  of  his  own 
lines  before  he  could  be  overtaken.  The  Little 
Butcher  didn^t  Uke  the  idea,  so  he  restrained  his 
impatience  and  waited,  fidgeting,  for  the  two  to 
close  in  to  each  other  or  to  him.  He  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  cloud  and  circled  with  engine 
throttled  back,  swinging  up  every  now  and 
again  until  he  could  just  catch  sight  of  the  two, 
ducking  back  behind  the  cloud  edge  again  with- 
out being  seen. 

He  was  so  intent  on  his  business  that  it  was 
only  instinct  or  long  habit  that  kept  him 
glancing  up  and  round  for  sight  of  any  other 
enemy,  and  it  was  this  that  perhaps  saved  him 
from  the  fate  he  was  preparing  for  the  two.  In 
one  of  his  upward  glances  he  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  another  machine  full  three  thousand  feet 
above  him,  and  racing  to  a  position  for  a  diving 
attack.  The  Little  Butcher,  as  he  said  that 
night,  "didn^t  know  whether  to  curse  or  weep." 
The  newcomer  broke  in  most  unpleasantly  on 
his  careful  plans.  Two  slow  old  Art.  Ob.  Huns 
were  one  sort  of  game;  with  a  fast  fighting  scout 
thrown  in  the  affair  became  very  different. 
The  two  he  had  counted  as  ''his  meat,"  but 
now  with  this  fellow  butting  in.  .  .  .  He  felt  it 
served  him  right  in  a  way  for  not  diving  at 


170  THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER 

them  first  shot  instead  of  hanging  about  for  a 
chance  to  bag  the  two.  He  had  been  impatient 
enough,  Lord  knew,  to  get  at  them,  and  he 
shouldn't  have  waited. 

All  this  went  through  his  mind  in  a  flash,  even 
as  his  eyes  were  taking  in  the  details  of  the 
scout  rushing  to  position  above  him,  his  mind 
figuring  out  the  other's  plan  of  attack.  He 
wasn't  worrying  much  for  the  moment  about 
the  attack,  because  he  was  still  circling  slowly 
above  his  cotton-wool  cloud,  had  only  to  thrust 
forward  the  joy-stick  to  vanish  as  completely 
from  sight  as  if  he  were  in  another  world.  But  he 
wanted  to  frame  the  best  plan  that  would  still 
give  him  a  shot  at  the  artillery  machines,  and — 

The  scout  above  pointed  at  him  and  came 
down  like  a  swooping  hawk,  his  guns  clattering 
out  a  long  burst  of  fire.  The  Little  Butcher 
flipped  over  and  sank  like  a  stone  into  the 
thickness  of  the  cloud.  He  went  plunging  down 
through  the  rushing  vapour,  burst  out  of  it  into 
the  sunHght  below,  opened  out  his  engine,  and, 
turning  towards  the  sun,  was  off  with  a  rush. 

As  he  swept  out  clear  of  the  cloud  he  looked 
round  and  up,  to  locate  his  enemies,  size  up  the 
position,  and  figure  the  chances  of  his  contem- 
plated plan  working.  The  scout  was  not  in 
sight  yet,  was  circling  above  the  cloud  still, 
probably  waiting  for  him  to  emerge.  The  two 
artillery  machines  were  closer  together,  as  if 
they  had  noticed  the  signs  of  fight  and  were  in 
position  to  support  each  other.  They  were  out 
on  his  right  hand  and  about  a  mile  away.     He 


THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER  171 

kept  straight  and  hard  on  his  course — a  course 
that  was  taking  him  into  a  Une  that  would  pass 
between  them  and  the  sun. 

He  saw  the  scout  again  now,  high  up  and 
eircHng  above  the  cloud  still.  The  Little 
Butcher  paid  no  further  heed  to  him,  but  drove 
on  at  his  top  pace,  with  his  head  twisted  to 
the  right  and  his  eyes  glued  on  the  slow  swinging 
artillery  machines.  They  gave  no  sign  of  seeing 
him  for  ten  long  seconds,  or  if  they  saw  him  con- 
cluded he  was  running  away.  '^My  luck  held," 
said  The  Little  Butcher  in  his  telling  of  the  tale, 
and  the  savage  ring  in  his  voice  and  glint  in  his 
dark  eyes  gave  a  little  shiver  to  the  two  listening 
infantrymen. 

He  gained  the  point  he  was  aiming  for,  shot 
up  into  ^'the  eye  of  the  sun,"  kicked  the  *bus 
hard  round,  and  came  plunging  and  hurtling  down 
on  the  nearest  of  the  two  machines.  As  he  dived 
he  heard  the  whip  of  bullets  past  him,  knew  the 
scout  above  had  sighted  him,  was  probably 
diving  in  turn  to  intercept  him.  He  paid  no 
heed;  held  hard  and  straight  on  his  course, 
keeping  his  eye  glued  on  the  nearest  machine 
and  his  sights  dead  on  him,  his  fingers  ready  to 
start  his  guns  at  first  sign  of  their  seeing  him. 
And  because  he  was  coming  on  them  "out  of 
the  sun,"  because  even  if  they  had  smoked 
glasses  on  and  looked  at  him  it  would  take  a 
second  or  two  to  accustom  themselves  to  the 
glare  and  be  sure  of  him,  he  was  within  300 
yards  before  the  farthest  one  suddenly  tilted 
and  whirled  round  and  dived  away. 


172  THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER 

The  Little  Butcher  was  on  him  before  he  had 
well  begun  his  dive,  had  gripped  the  trigger 
lever  of  his  guns  and  commenced  to  hail  a  stream 
of  bullets  ahead  of  him.  He  saw  the  Hun  swerve 
and  thrust  his  nose  down,  so  changed  course 
slightly  to  hold  him  in  his  sights,  and  kept  his 
guns  going  hard.  He  was  close  enough  now  to 
see  the  observer  swinging  his  gun  round  to  fire 
on  him,  and  then,  next  instant,  to  see  a  handful 
of  his  bullets  hit  splintering  into  the  woodwork 
of  the  Hun's  fuselage. 

The  Hun  fell  spinning  and  rolling,  and  The 
Little  Butcher  thrust  his  nose  down  and  ripped 
in  another  short  burst  as  his  target  swept  under- 
neath. Then  he  lifted  and  swung,  and  went 
tearing  straight  at  the  second  artillery  ma- 
chine, which  was  nose  on  to  him  and  firing 
hard  from  its  forward  gun.  At  the  same 
moment  he  heard  the  whipping  and  cracking  of 
bullets  about  him  and  the  clatter  of  close 
machine-guns,  looked  up,  and  saw  the  scout 
turn  zooming  up  from  a  dive  on  him. 

The  Little  Butcher  held  straight  on,  opening 
fire  at  the  Hun  ahead.  The  Hun  side-slipped, 
ducked  and  spun  down  a  thousand  feet.  The 
Little  Butcher  diving  after,  spitting  short  iDursts 
at  him  every  time  he  thought  he  crossed  the 
sights,  aware  again  that  the  scout  above  was 
following  him  down  and  shooting  uncomfortably 
close.  He  was  forced  to  turn  his  attention  to 
him,  so  next  time  a  dive  came,  he  pulled  his  top 
gun  down  and  let  drive  at  the  shape  that  plunged 
down,  over,  and  up,  then  hoicked  up  after  him 
and  engaged  hotly. 


THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER  173 

The  two-seater  below  made  no  attempt  to 
climb  and  join  the  combat,  but  swinging  east  hit 
for  home  as  hard  as  he  could  go.  The  Little 
Butcher  broke  off  his  fight  with  the  scout  and 
went,  full  out,  after  the  two-seater,  the  scout 
whirling  round  and  following  gamely.  Because 
The  Little  Butcher  had  by  far  the  faster  machine, 
and  had  besides  the  added  impetus  of  a  down- 
ward slant  from  his  thousand-foot  higher  level, 
he  overhauled  the  two-seater  hand  over  fist, 
forced  him  into  a  spinning  dive  again,  and  in  a 
moment  was  mixing  it  in  a  hot  fight  with  him 
and  the  scout.  Again,  because  he  had  the  faster 
and  handier  machine,  he  secured  an  advantage, 
and  whipping  round  astern  of  the  scout  and 
''sitting  on  his  taiP^  drove  him  to  escape  his 
fire  in  a  steep  spin. 

But  at  that  moment  The  Little  Butcher  felt 
a  spray  of  wet  on  his  face,  found  it  was  oil,  and 
concluded,  wrathfuUy,  that  his  oil  tank  or  pipe 
must  be  shot  through.  His  engine,  he  knew, 
would  quickly  run  dry,  might  seize  up  at  any 
moment,  and  leave  hina  helpless.  And  the  two- 
seater  was  off  tearing  for  the  fines  again,  the 
scout  still  spinning  down  to  escape  him.  He 
wanted  that  two-seater,  wanted  him  badly.  He 
had  bagged  the  one  and  meant  getting  the  other. 

There  was  a  last  chance — if  his  engine  would 
stand  for  a  few  minutes.  He  opened  her  out 
and  shot  off  after  the  two-seater.  He  caught 
him  up  and  dropped  astern,  the  oil  still  sprajdng 
back,  misting  his  goggles  and  nearly  blinding 
him,  the  Hun  observer  pouring  a  long  steady 
fire  at  him.     He  stooped  forward  with  his  face 


174  THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER 

close  to  the  wind-screen,  dropped  to  a  position 
dead  astern  of  the  two-seater  where  the  observer 
could  not  effectively  fire  at  him  without  shooting 
away  his  own  tail,  and  poured  in  a  long  clatter- 
ing burst  from  both  guns.  His  bullets,  he  knew, 
were  tearing  stern  to  stem  through  the  Hun; 
but  the  Hun  held  on,  and  The  Little  Butcher 
felt  his  engine  check  and  kick.  The  oil  spray  had 
ceased,  which  meant  the  last  of  the  oil  was 
gone  and  the  engine  running  dry.  The  Little 
Butcher  gritted  his  teeth,  and  kept  his  guns  going. 

The  Hun  observer's  fire  stopped  suddenly, 
and  he  fell  limp  across  the  edge  of  his  cockpit. 
The  Hun  pilot  was  helpless.  With  a  fast  scout 
on  his  tail,  with  no  gunner  or  gun  to  shoot 
astern,  he  could  do  nothing — except  perhaps 
escape  in  a  spin  down.  But  astern  of  him  the 
guns  continued  to  chatter,  the  bullets  to  rip 
and  tear  and  splinter  through  his  machine. 

The  Little  Butcher  was  in  an  agony  of  suspense 
as  to  whether  he  could  get  his  man  before  his 
engine  failed  him,  and  as  he  told  his  story  it 
was  plain  to  see  the  intensity,  the  desperate 
uncertainty,  and  the  eagerness  he  had  felt.  '^I 
knew  my  engine  was  going  to  conk  out  any 
second — could  feel  a  sort  of  grate  and  grind  in 
her,  and  that  my  revs,  were  dropping  off.  The 
Hun  was  drawing  away  a  yard  or  two  .  .  .  and  I 
tell  you  I  cursed  the  luck.  I  hung  on,  dead 
astern  and  pumping  it  into  him  and  seeing  my 
bullets  fairly  raking  him.  But  he  wouldn't 
go  down.  ..."  (His  eyes  gleamed  as  he  spoke, 
his  brows  were   drawn   down,   his   whole   face 


THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER  175 

quivering  with  eagerness,  with  the  revived 
excitement  of  the  chase,  the  passionate  desire 
for  the  downfall  of  his  quarry.)  ''I  began  to 
think  he^d  get  away.  I'd  never  have  forgiven 
myself — having  him  dead  helpless  like  that,  right 
at  point-blank,  and  then  losing  him.  .  .  .  But  I 
got  him  at  last — and  just  in  time.  Got  him, 
and  crashed  him  good.  .  .  .  '* 

It  all  sounds  very  brutal  perhaps — did  cer- 
tainly to  the  two  infantrymen  listening,  fas- 
cinated. But — this  was  The  Little  Butcher;  and 
he  was  out  to  kill. 

The  end  had  come  a  few  seconds  later.  The 
Hun  pilot  lurched  forward;  his  machine 
plunged,  rolled  over,  shot  out  and  up,  tail-slid, 
and  then  went  spinning  and  '^dead-leafing'' 
down.  The  Little  Butcher  shut  off  his  crippled 
engine,  looked  round  and  saw  the  Hun  scout 
streaking  for  the  lines,  put  his  machine  into  a 
long  glide  and  watched  his  second  victim  twist 
and  twirl  down  and  down,  watched  until  he  saw 
him  hit  and  crash. 

He  came  down  and  made  a  landing  on  another 
'drome,  borrowed  a  tender,  and  in  an  hour  was 
eating  his  dinner. 

I  have  said  the  two  visitors  did  not  like  the 
story  or  the  teller.  They  were,  in  fact,  a  httle 
disgusted  and  sickened  with  both,  and  they 
said  as  much  to  their  friend  the  CO.  when  the 
others  had  left  the  table,  and  they  three  lingered 
over  liqueurs. 

"Silly  of  me  perhaps,"  said  one,  "but  I 
hated  the  way  that  boy  sort  of  licked  his  lips 


176  THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER 

over  the  chance  of  catching  that  Hun  unawares 
and  shooting  him  down." 

The  other  wrinkled  his  nose  disgustedly.  ''It 
was  fifty  times  worse  his  hanging  to  that  fellow 
who  couldn't  shoot  back — when  the  observer 
was  dead — and  bringing  him  down  in  cold  blood. 
Poor  devil.     Think  of  his  feehngs.'' 

"Little  Butcher/'  said  the  first,  "you  named 
him  well.     Bloody-minded  little  butcher  at  that." 

''But  hold  on  a  minute,"  said  the  CO.  "I 
can't  let  you  run  away  with  these  wrong  notions 
of  The  Little  Butcher.  Have  you  any  idea  why 
he  is  so  keen  on  killing  Huns?  Why  he  jumped 
at  the  chance  to  go  up  and  get  that  one  to-day, 
why  he  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  tackle  the  two,  why 
he— well,  why  he  is  The  Little  Butcher?" 

"Lord  knows,"  said  one,  and  "Pure  blood- 
thirstiness,"  the  other. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  CO.  "It  is  because 
he  was  once  in  the  infantry,  as  I  was;  and 
because  he  knows,  as  I  do,  what  it  means  to  the 
line  to  have  an  artillery  observing  machine 
over  directing  shells  on  to  you  fellows,  or  taking 
photos  that  will  locate  your  positions  and  bring 
Hades  down  on  you.  Every  Hun  that  comes 
over  the  line,  you  fellows  have  to  sweat  for; 
every  minute  a  gun-spotter  or  photographer  or 
reconnaissance  machine  works  over  you,  you  pay 
for  in  killed  and  wounded.  Lots  of  our  pilots 
don't  properly  realise  that,  and  treat  air  fighting 
as  more  or  le^  of  a  sporting  game,  or  just  as  the 
job  they're  here  for.  The  Little  Butcher  knows 
that  every  Hun  crashed  means  so  many  more 


THE  LITTLE  BUTCHER  177 

lives  saved  on  the  ground,  every  Hun  that  gets 
away  alive  will  be  the  death  of  some  of  you; 
so  he's  full  out  to  crash  them — whenever, 
wherever,  and  however  he  can." 

The  two  guests  fidgeted  a  little  and  glanced 
shamefacedly    at     one     another.      "I    hadn't 

thought "  began  one,  and  ''I  never  looked 

at  it ''  said  the  other. 

"No,"  said  the  CO.,  ''and  few  men  on  the 
ground  do,  because  they  don't  know  any  better. 
P'raps  you'll  tell  some  of  'em.  And  don't  for- 
get— although  I  admit  that,  as  he  told  the 
story,  it  mightn't  sound  like  it — his  isn't  the 
simple  butchering  game  you  seem  to  think. 
You  didn't  see  his  'bus  when  it  was  brought  in? 
No.  Well,  it  had  just  thirty-seven  bullet  holes 
in  it,  including  one  through  the  windscreen,  a 
foot  off  his  head.  Any  one  of  those  might  have 
crashed  him;  and  he  knows  it.  Some  day  one 
of  them  will  get  him;  and  he  also  knows  that. 
But  he  takes  his  risks,  and  will  keep  on  taking 
'em — because  every  risk,  every  Hun  downed,  is 
saving  some  of  you  fellows  on  the  floor.  There's 
a-many  women  at  home  to-night  who  might  be 
widows  and  are  still  wives;  and  for  that  you 
can  thank  God — and  The  Little  Butcher." 

"I  see,"  said  the  one  listener  slowly —  ''I  see." 

''So  do  I,"  said  the  other.  "And  I'm  glad 
you  told  us.  Now,"  thrusting  his  chair  back, 
"I'm  going  to  find  The  Little  Butcher,  and 
apologise  to  him." 

"Me  too,"  said  the  first — "apologise,  and 
thank  him  for  all  he's  done,  and  is  doing — for  us." 


XIV 

A  CUSHY  JOBi 

A  Ferry  Pilot  once  told  me  that  he  had  a  very 
pleasant  and  ^^ cushy''  job,  especially  when  you 
compared  it  with  the  one  in  a  Squadron  working 
over  the  lines.  Because  we  had  just  made  an 
ideal  flight  across  Channel  on  a  beautiful  summer 
day,  and  were  sitting  in  comfortable  deck-chairs, 
basking  in  the  sun  outside  the  Pool  Pilots' 
Mess  after  a  good  lunch,  I  was  inclined  at  first 
to  believe  him.  A  little  later  he  told  a  story 
which  made  me  revise  that  belief,  the  more  so 
as  it  was  not  told  to  impress,  and  was  accepted 
by  the  other  Ferry  Pilots  there  present  so 
casually  and  with  so  little  comment  that  it  was 
apparently  an  experience  not  at  all  beyond  the 
average. 

A  chance  remark  was  made  about  a  recent 
trip  on  which  he  had  been  lost  in  the  mist,  and 
had  two  very  close  shaves  from  crashing.  Since 
none  of  the  others  asked  for  the  story,  I  did, 
and  got  it  at  last,  told  very  sketchily  and  off- 
handedly, and  only  filled  in  with  such  details 
as  I  could  drag  out  of  him  with  many  questions. 

He  had  started  out  one  morning  to  fly  a  new 
fast  single-seater  scout  machine  to  France,  and, 

^  Cushy  =easy,  soft. 
178 


A  CUSHY  JOB  179 

while  getting  his  height  before  pushing  out  across 
Channel,  noticed  there  was  a  haze  over  the  water, 
and  that  the  coast  on  the  other  side  was  also 
rather  obscured,  although  not  to  any  alarming 
extent.  But  before  he  had  got  over  to  the 
French  side  quite  a  thick  mist  had  crept  up 
Channel,  and  he  had  to  come  down  to  a  couple 
of  thousand  feet  to  pick  up  his  exact  bearings. 
He  lost  some  time  at  this,  but  at  last  recognised 
a  bit  of  the  coast,  and  found  he  was  rather  off 
his  hne,  so  swung  off  and  pushed  for  the  Depot 
landing-ground.  Before  he  reached  it,  the  mist, 
which  had  been  steadily  thickening,  suddenly 
swept  over  in  a  solid  wave,  and  he  found  any 
view  of  the  ground  completely  gone. 

He  climbed  a  couple  of  thousand  into  the 
sunlight  again,  and  looked  round  for  a  bearing, 
thought  he  could  make  out  the  ground  in  one 
direction,  and,  opening  his  engine  full  out,  pushed 
off  for  the  spot.  But  either  his  eyes  had  deceived 
him,  or  the  mist  had  beat  him  to  it.  He  flew  on, 
with  nothing  but  crawling,  drifting  mist  visible 
below  him,  dropped  down  again  and  peered  over 
the  side,  down  and  down  again  until  his  altimeter 
showed  him  to  be  a  bare  couple  of  hundred  feet 
up.  There  was  still  no  sight  of  ground,  and 
since  he  was  now  in  thick  mist  himself  he  could 
see  nothing  but  dim  greyness  below,  all  round, 
and  above  him.  He  climbed  through  thinning 
layers  of  mist  into  daylight,  and  headed  straight 
south  by  compass,  figuring  that  the  best  plan  was 
to  try  to  outfly  the  mist  area,  and,  when  he 
could    see   the    ground   anywhere,    pick   up   a 


180  A  CUSHY  JOB 

bearing  and  a  'drome,  any  'drome,  and  get  down 
on  it. 

But  after  half  an  hour's  flight  he  was  still 
above  crawling  banks  of  mist,  and  by  now  had 
not  the  faintest  idea  of  where  he  was.  He  had 
made  several  dips  down  to  look  for  the  ground, 
but  each  time  had  caught  not  the  faintest  indica- 
tion of  it,  although  he  had  dropped  dangerously 
low  according  to  the  altimeter.  He  began  to 
wonder  if  the  altimeter  was  registering  cor- 
rectly, but  came  to  the  highly  unpleasant  con- 
clusion that,  if  he  could  not  trust  it,  he  certainly 
dare  not  distrust  it  to  the  extent  of  believing 
he  was  higher  than  it  showed,  dropping  down 
and  perhaps  barging  into  a  clump  of  trees,  or 
telegraph  wires,  or  any  other  obstruction. 

He  admits  that  he  began  to  get  a  bit  rattled 
here.  He  became  oppressed  with  a  desolating 
sense  of  his  utter  aloneness,  especially  when  he 
was  low  down  and  whirling  blindly  through  the 
mist.  He  was  completely  cut  off  from  the 
world.  Firm  ground  was  there  beneath  him 
somewhere,  cheery  companions,  homely  things 
like  cosy  rooms  and  fires  and  hot  coffee;  but 
while  the  mist  lasted  he  could  no  more  touch  any 
of  them  than  he  could  touch  the  moon. 

To  make  it  worse,  he  was  completely  lost  and 
had  not  the  faintest  idea  where  he  was.  He 
was  steering  by  compass  only,  and  if  he  was 
drifting  to  the  east  he  might  be  approaching 
the  lines  and  Hunland,  and  if  to  the  west  might 
even  now  be  over  the  sea.  For  an  hour  and  a 
half  he  flew,  trying  to  keep  a  straight  course 
south,  and  seeing  nothing  but  that  dim  grey 


A  CUSHY  JOB  181 

around  him  when  he  came  low,  the  sun  and  sky 
above,  and  the  wide  floor  of  mist  beneath,  when 
he  climbed  high.  Flying  high  he  had  the  same 
sense  of  aloneness,  of  being  the  only  living 
thing  in  an  empty  world  of  his  own,  of  cut-off- 
ness  from  the  earth,  that  he  had  when  he  was 
in  the  blanketting  mist. 

It  was  a  different  kind  of  aloneness,  but  even 
more  desperate  from  the  feehng  of  helplessness 
that  went  with  it.  Here  he  was,  a  fit,  strong 
man,  with  every  limb,  organ,  and  sense  perfect, 
with  a  good,  sound,  first-class  machine  under 
him,  with  a  bright  sun  and  a  clear  sky  above, 
able  to  control  his  every  movement,  to  fly  to  any 
point  of  the  compass,  to  go  up,  or  down,  or 
round,  at  any  angle  or  speed  he  liked — except 
a  speed  low  enough  to  allow  him  to  drop  to  the 
ground  without  smashing  himself  and  his  machine 
to  pulp  and  splinters.  All  his  power  was  reduced 
to  nought  by  a  mere  bank  of  mist,  a  thin  im- 
palpable vapour,  a  certain  amount  of  moisture 
in  the  atmosphere.  His  very  power  and  speed 
were  his  undoing.  Speed  that  in  free  air  was 
safety,  was  death  on  touching  the  ground  except 
at  a  proper  angle  and  with  a  clear  run  to  slow 
in — an  angle  he  could  not  gauge,  a  clear  run  he 
could  not  find  for  this  deadly  mist.  It  was 
maddening  .  .  .  and  terrifying. 

He  decided  to  make  one  more  try  for  the 
ground,  a  last  attempt  to  see  if  he  could  get 
below  the  mist  blanket  without  hitting  the 
earth.  He  thrust  his  nose  down  and  plunged, 
flattening  out  a  little  as  he  came  into  the  mist, 
shut  off  his  engine,  and  went  on  down  in  a  long 


182  A  CUSHY  JOB 

glide  with  his  eyes  on  the  altimeter,  lifting  and 
staring  down  overside,  turning  back  quickly  to 
read  his  height.  At  three  hundred  he  could  see 
nothing,  at  two  hundred  nothing,  at  a  hundred 
still  nothing  but  swirling  greyness.  He  flew  on, 
still  edging  down,  opening  up  his  engine  every 
now  and  then  to  maintain  flying  speed,  shutting 
it  off  and  gliding,  his  eyes  straining  for  sight  of 
anything  solid,  his  ears  for  sound  of  anything 
but  the  whistle  and  whine  of  the  wind  on  his 
wings  and  wires.  Down,  still  down,  his  heart  in 
his  mouth,  his  hand  ready  on  the  throttle — 
down  .  .  .  down  .  .  . 

Everything  depended  on  what  sort  of  surface 
he  was  flying  above.  If  there  were  flat  open 
fields  he  must  catch  sight,  however  shadowy  it 
might  be,  of  them  before  touching  anything. 
If  there  were  trees  or  buildings  below,  the  first 
sight  he  got  might  be  something  looming  up 
before  him  a  fraction  of  a  second  before  he  hit. 
Down,  steadily  and  gradually,  but  still  down — 
down  .  .  .  then,  up — suddenly  and  steeply,  his 
hand  jerking  the  throttle  wide  open,  the  engine 
roaring  out  in  deafening  notes  that  for  all  their 
strength  could  not  drown  the  thumping  of  his 
heart  and  the  blood  drumming  in  his  ears.  A 
hundred  feet  he  climbed  steeply;  but  even  then, 
with  the  panic  of  immediate  peril  gone,  he  kept 
on  climbing  in  narrow  turns  up  into  the  sunlight 
again. 

He  had  had  a  deadly  narrow  escape,  had  been 
so  intent  on  staring  down  for  the  ground  that 
almost  before  he  knew  what  was  happening  he 
had  flashed  close  past  something  solid,  some- 


A  CUSHY  JOB  183 

thing  that  his  wing-tips  catching  would  have 
meant  death — a  straight  upright  pillar,  then 
another,  with  faint  pencilled  Hues  running 
between  them — a  ship's  masts  and  rigging.  And 
as  he  shot  up,  almost  straight  up,  he  had  a  quick 
glimpse  of  another  three  shadowy  masts  jerking 
downwards  into  obscurity  before  and  then 
beneath  him.  He  must  be  over  a  harbour,  or 
dock,  or  perhaps  some  sort  of  canal  basin.  He 
kept  his  upward  course  until  he  was  in  sunlight 
again,  carefully  examined  his  oil  and  petrol 
gauges  and  his  compass,  and  set  a  northerly 
course.  The  mist  might  be  over  all  France;  he 
would  make  a  try  back  for  England. 

He  held  on  until  he  had  run  his  main  petrol 
tank  out,  switched  on  to  the  gravity  "emer- 
gency tank"  set  on  the  top  plane,  and  kept 
steadily  on  his  course.  He  had  an  hour's  petrol 
there,  and  that  ought,  he  figured,  to  take  him 
well  over  England  and  inland. 

He  decided  to  keep  going  until  he  could  see 
signs  of  the  mist  thinning,  or  until  his  petrol 
ran  almost  out;  but  when  it  was  about  half 
empty,  and  he  thought  he  must  be  back  over  the 
Channel  and  a  good  many  miles  inland,  he  slid 
down  through  the  mist  on  the  chance  of  being 
able  to  see  the  ground  below  it.  He  went  down 
to  a  hundred  feet,  lower,  could  see  nothing, 
opened  his  engine  out  again  and  began  to  climb. 

Then  he  had  another  hair-raising  deadly  scare. 
He  saw  the  mist  in  front  of  him  suddenly  begin 
to  darken,  to  solidify,  to  take  shape,  to  become 
a  solid  bulk  stretching  out  and  thinning  away  to 
grey  mist  to  either  side,  above  him,  and  below  him. 


184  A  CUSHY  JOB 

For  one  flashing  instant  he  was  puzzled,  for 
another  he  was  panic-stricken,  knew  with  a 
cold  clutch  of  terror  at  his  heart  that  he  was 
charging  at  a  hundred  miles  an  hour  full  into 
the  face  of  a  sheer-walled  cliff.  Actually  his 
speed  was  his  saving — his  speed  and  the  instinct 
that  did  the  one  possible  thing  to  bring  him 
clear.  He  had  gathered  way  on  his  upward 
slant,  his  engine  running  full  out.  He  hauled 
the  control  lever  hard  in,  and  his  machine, 
answering  instantly,  reared  and  swooped  and 
shot  straight  up  parallel  with  the  cliff  face,  over 
in  the  first  half  of  a  loop,  and  straight  away 
from  the  cliff,  upside  down,  until  he  was  far 
enough  out  safely  to  roll  over  to  an  even  keel. 
It  was  so  close  a  thing  that  for  an  instant  he  saw 
distinctly  the  cracks  and  crevices  in  the  cliff 
face,  held  his  breath,  dreading  to  feel  the  jar  of 
wheels  or  tail  on  the  rock,  and  the  plunge  and 
crash  that  would  follow. 

A  long  way  out  he  slanted  up,  with  his  heart 
still  thumping  unpleasantly,  climbed  until  he 
was  in  the  sunhght  again,  and  turned  north. 

He  found  the  mist  thinning  ten  minutes  later, 
cleared  it  in  another  five,  glided  down,  and  picked 
a  good  field,  and  landed — with  about  ten  minutes' 
petrol  in  his  tank. 

And  that  same  afternoon,  when  the  mist 
went,  he  refilled  his  tanks  and  took  his  machine 
over  to  France,  and  delivered  it  to  the  Depot 
there. 

But  a  Ferry  Pilot,  you'll  remember,  has  a 
''cushy  job." 


XV 

NO  THOROUGHFARE 

For  a  week  the  line  had  been  staggering  back, 
fighting  savagely  to  hold  their  ground,  being 
driven  in,  time  and  again,  by  the  sheer  weight 
of  fresh  German  divisions  brought  up  and 
hurled  without  a  pause  against  them,  giving 
way  and  retiring  sullenly  and  stubbornly  to 
fresh  positions,  having  to  endure  renewed 
ferocious  onslaughts  there,  and  give  to  them 
again.  Fighting,  marching,  digging  in;  fighting 
again  and  repeating  the  performance  over  and 
over  for  days  and  nights,  our  men  were  worn 
down  dangerously  near  to  the  point  of  exhaus- 
tion and  collapse,  the  point  over  which  the 
Germans  strove  to  thrust  them,  the  point 
where  human  endurance  could  no  longer  stand 
the  strain,  and  the  breaking,  crumbling  line 
would  give  the  opening  for  which  the  Germans 
fought  so  hard,  the  opening  through  which  they 
would  pour  their  masses  and  cut  the  Allied 
armies  in  two. 

Now  at  the  end  of  a  week  it  looked  as  if  their 
aim  was  dangerously  near  attainment.  On  one 
portion  of  the  line  especially  the  strain  had 
been  tremendous,  and  the  men,  hard  driven  and 

185 


186  NO  THOROUGHFARE 

harassed  for  two  days  and  nights  almost  with- 
out a  break,  were  staggering  on  their  feet, 
stupid  with  fatigue,  dazed  for  want  of  sleep. 
Of  all  their  privations  this  want  of  sleep  was 
the  hardest  and  cruellest.  The  men  longed 
for  nothing  more  than  a  chance  to  throw  them- 
selves on  the  ground,  to  fling  down  on  the 
roadside,  in  the  ditches,  anywhere,  anyhow, 
and  close  their  aching  eyes  and  sink  in  deep, 
deep  sleep.  But  there  was  no  faintest  hope  of 
sleep  for  them.  They  had  been  warned  that 
all  the  signs  were  of  a  fresh  great  attack  being 
launched  on  them  about  dusk,  by  more  of 
those  apparently  inexhaustible  fresh  enemy 
divisions.  The  divisions  they  had  fought  all 
day  were  being  held  stubbornly  by  rear-guard 
actions  until  the  new  positions  were  established; 
and  plain  word  had  been  brought  in  by  recon- 
noitring air  men  of  the  new  masses  pressing  up 
by  road  and  rail  to  converge  with  all  their 
weight  on  the  weakened  line  and  the  worn-out 
men  who  made  ready  to  hold  it.  Everyone 
knew  what  was  coming.  Company  and  battalion 
officers  scanned  the  ground  and  picked  positions 
for  trenches  and  machine-guns  to  sweep  the 
attack;  Generals  Commanding  pored  over  maps 
and  contours  and  sought  points  where  concen- 
trated shell-fire  might  best  check  the  masses. 
And  all  who  knew  anything  knew  that  it  was 
no  more  than  a  forlorn  hope  that  if  once  those 
fresh  divisions  came  to  close  quarters  they 
could  be  beaten  back.  Our  men  would  be 
outnumbered,    would    be    unrested    and    worn 


NO  THOROUGHFARE  187 

with  fighting  and  digging  and  marching  con- 
tinuously,— that  was  the  rub;  if  our  men  could 
have  a  rest,  a  few  hours'  sleep,  a  chance  to 
recuperate,  they  could  make  some  sort  of  a 
show,  put  up  a  decent  fight  again,  hold  on  long 
enough  to  give  the  promised  reinforcements 
time  to  come  up,  the  guns  to  take  up  new  posi- 
tions. But  ''a  renewed  attack  in  force  must 
be  expected  by  dusk''  said  the  word  that  came 
to  them,  and  every  precious  minute  until 
then  must  be  filled  with  moving  the  tired 
men  into  position,  doing  their  utmost  to  dig 
in  and  make  some  kind  of  defensive  line.  It 
looked  bad. 

But  there  were  other  plans  in  the  making, 
plans  figured  out  on  wider  reaching  lines,  offer- 
ing the  one  chance  of  success  in  attacking  the 
fresh  enemy  masses  at  their  most  vulnerable 
points,  fifteen,  twenty  miles  away  from  our 
weary  line.  The  plans  were  completed  and 
worked  out  in  detail  and  passed  down  the  chain 
to  the  air  Squadrons;  and  Flight  by  Flight  the 
pilots  and  observers  loaded  up  to  the  full  capacity 
of  their  machines  with  bombs  and  machine- 
gun  ammunition  and  went  droning  out  over 
the  heads  of  the  working  troops  digging  the 
fresh  line,  over  the  scattered  outpost  and  rear- 
guard lines  where  the  Germans  pressed  ten- 
tatively and  waited  for  the  new  reinforcements 
that  were  to  recommence  the  fierce  "hammer- 
blow"  attacks,  on  over  the  dribbling  streams  of 
transport  and  men  moving  by  many  paths  into 
the  battle  line,  on  to  where  the  main  streams 


188  NO  THOROUGHFARE 

ran  full  flood  on  road  and  rail — and  where  the 
streams  could  best  be  dammed  and  diverted. 

The  air  Squadrons  went  in  force  to  their 
work,  bent  all  their  energies  for  the  moment  to 
the  one  great  task  of  breaking  up  the  masses 
before  they  could  bring  their  weight  into  the 
line,  of  upsetting  the  careful  time-table  which 
the  enemy  must  lay  down  and  follow  if  they 
were  to  handle  with  any  success  the  huge  bulk 
of  traffic  they  were  putting  on  road  and  rail. 
Each  Flight  and  Squadron  had  its  own  ap- 
pointed work  and  place,  its  carefully  detailed 
orders  of  how  and  where  to  go  about  their 
business.  In  one  Squadron,  where  the  CO. 
held  council  with  his  Flight  Leaders  and  ex- 
plained the  position  and  pointed  out  the  plans, 
one  of  his  Captains  summed  up  the  instructions 
in  a  sentence.  "That  bit  of  road,"  he  said 
with  his  finger  on  the  map,  "you  want  us  to 
see  it's  'No  Thoroughfare'  for  the  Hun  up  to 
dark?'' 

"That's  it,"  said  the  CO.  "And  if  you  get 
a  chance  at  a  train  or  two  about  here — well, 
don't  let  it  slip." 

"Right-oh,"  "That's  simple,"  "No  Thorough- 
fare," said  the  Captains,  and  proceeded  about 
their  business.  The  Flights  went  off  at  short 
intervals,  intervals  calculated  to  "keep  the  pot 
a-boiling,"  as  closely  as  possible,  to  allow  no 
minutes  when  some  of  the  Squadron  would  not 
be  on  or  about  the  spot  to  enforce  the  "No 
Thoroughfare"  rule.  For  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon they  came  and  went,  and  came  and  went, 


NO  THOROUGHFARE  189 

in  a  steady  string,  circling  in  and  dropping 
to  the  'drome  to  refill  hurriedly  with  fresh  stocks 
of  bombs  and  ammunition,  taking  off  and 
driving  out  to  the  east  as  soon  as  they  had  the 
tanks  and  drums  filled  and  the  bombs  hitched 
on.  They  were  on  scout  machines  carrying  four 
light  bombs  and  many  hundred  rounds  of 
ammunition  apiece,  and  Dennis,  the  leader  of 
the  first  Flight,  made  an  enthusiastic  report  of 
success  on  the  first  return.  ''Found  the  spot 
all  right.  Major,''  he  said  cheerfully.  ''The 
crater  reported  is  there  all  right,  and  it  has 
wrecked  half  the  road.  There  was  a  working 
party  on  it  going  like  steam  to  fill  in  the  hole, 
we  disturbed  the  party  a  whole  lot." 

They  had  disturbed  them.  The  road  was 
one  of  those  long  miles-straight  main  routes 
that  run  between  the  towns  in  that  part  of 
France.  They  were  well  filled  with  troops 
and  transport  over  the  first  miles,  but  the  Flight 
Leader  followed  instructions  and  let  these  go, 
knowing  other  Squadrons  would  be  dealing 
with  them  in  their  own  good  time  and  way. 
"Although  I  wish  they'd  get  busy  and  do  it," 
as  he  told  the  CO.  "Having  nothing  to  worry 
them,  those  Huns  just  naturally  filled  the  air 
with  lead  as  he  went  over  'em.  Look  at  my 
poor  old  'Little  Indian'  there;  her  planes  are 
as  full  of  holes  as  a  sieve." 

But  he  had  pushed  his  "Little  Indian" 
straight  on  without  attempting  to  return  the 
fire  from  below,  and  presently  he  came  to  the 
spot  where  the  Squadron  was  to  tackle  its  job 


190  NO  THOROUGHFARE 

— a  spot  where  an  attempt  had  been  made  by 
our  Engineers  to  blow  up  the  road  as  we  retired, 
and  where  a  yawning  hole  took  up  half  the 
road,  leaving  one  good  lorry-width  for  the 
transport  to  crawl  round.  An  infantry  battalion 
was  tramping  past  the  crater  when  the  Flight 
arrived  above  it,  and  since  the  '^Little  Indian" 
flew  straight  on  without  loosing  off  a  bomb  or 
a  shot,  the  rest  of  the  Flight  followed  obediently, 
although  in  some  wonder  as  to  whether  the 
target  was  not  being  passed  by  mistake.  There 
was  no  mistake.  They  followed  the  leader 
round  in  a  wide  sweep  over  the  open  fields  with 
stray  bunches  of  infantry  firing  wildly  up  at 
them,  round  to  the  crater,  and  past  it  again, 
and  out  and  round  still  wider.  The  road  by 
the  crater  was  empty  as  they  passed,  but  a 
long  string  of  lorries  and  horse  transport  that 
had  been  waiting  half  a  mile  back  began  to 
move  and  crawl  along  towards  the  crater.  The 
'^Little  Indian"  kept  on  her  wide  circle  until 
half  the  lorries  were  past  the  crater.  Then  she 
came  round  in  a  steep  bank  and  shot  straight 
as  an  arrow  back  to  the  road,  swept  round 
sharply  again  and  went  streaking  along  above 
it.  Two  hundred  yards  from  the  crater  she 
lifted,  curved  over  and  came  diving  down, 
spitting  fire  and  lead  as  she  came,  pelting  a 
stream  of  bullets  on  the  lorries  abreast  of  the 
mine  hole  and  diving  straight  at  them.  Thirty 
feet  away  from  the  hole,  one,  two,  three,  four 
black  objects  dropped  away  from  under  the 
machine,  and  four  spurts  of  flame  and  smoke 


NO  THOROUGHFARE  191 

leaped  and  flashed  amongst  the  lorries  and  about 
the  hole,  as  the  ^^ Little  Indian"  zoomed  up, 
ducked  over  and  came  diving  down  again  with 
hex  machine-guns  hailing  bullets  along  the 
lorries  and  the  horse  transport.  And  close 
astern  of  her  came  the  rest  of  the  FUght,  splash- 
ing their  bombs  down  the  length  of  the  convoy, 
each  saving  one  or  two  for  the  spot  by  the 
crater,  continuing  along  the  road  and  emptying 
their  guns  on  the  transport.  Half  a  mile  along 
the  road  they  swung  round  and  turned  back 
and  repeated  the  gunning  performance  on  men 
struggling  to  hold  and  steady  crazed  and  bolting 
horses,  on  wagons  in  the  ditches,  on  one  lorry 
with  her  nose  well  down  in  the  half-filled  crater 
and  another  one  comfortably  crashed  against 
her  tail  that  stuck  out  into  the  half-width  bit  of 
road. 

''A  beautiful  block,"  the  FHght  told  the 
Major  on  their  return.  ''Couldn't  have  placed 
'em  better  if  we'd  driven  the  lorries  ourselves. 
And  there's  horse  wagons  enough  scattered 
along  the  ditches  of  the  next  half  mile  to  keep 
the  Hun  busy  for  hours." 

The  second  FHght,  arriving  about  ten  minutes 
after  the  first  had  departed  homeward  bound, 
found  the  Huns  exceedingly  busy  struggling 
to  remove  the  wrecked  transport  which  so 
effectually  blocked  the  way.  There  were  men 
enough  crowded  round  the  crater  especially  to 
make  a  very  fine  target,  and  the  first  machine 
or  two  got  their  bombs  well  home  on  these,  and 
scattered  the  rest  impartially  along  the  road  on 


192  NO  THOROUGHFARE 

any  "suitable  targets"  of  men  or  transport. 
They  established  another  couple  of  very  useful 
blocks  along  the  mile  of  road  behind  the  crater, 
and  completely  cleared  the  road  of  marching 
men  for  a  good  three  miles.  The  third  Flight 
found  no  targets  beyond  the  working  party  at 
the  crater  until  they  had  gone  back  a  few  miles 
to  a  cross  road,  where  they  distributed  some 
bombs  on  a  field  battery,  bolted  the  teams,  and 
left  the  gunners  well  down  in  the  ditches  beside 
their  overturned  guns  and  limbers. 

They  had  barely  finished  their  performance 
when  the  first  Flight  was  back  again,  but  by 
this  time  the  enemy  had  taken  steps  to  upset 
the  arrangements,  and  with  a  couple  of  machine- 
guns  posted  by  the  crater  did  their  best  to  keep 
the  traffic  blockers  out  of  reach  of  their  targets. 
But  the  Flight  would  not  be  denied,  and  drove 
in  through  the  storm  of  bullets,  planted  their 
bombs  and  gave  the  ground  gunners  a  good 
peppering,  and  got  away  with  no  further  damage 
than  a  lot  of  bullet  holes  in  wings  and  fuselages. 
For  the  next  hour  the  Germans  fought  to 
strengthen  their  anti-aircraft  defences,  bringing 
up  more  machine-guns  and  lining  the  ditches 
with  riflemen,  and  the  attackers  got  a  reception 
that  grew  hotter  and  hotter  with  each  attempt. 
But  they  held  the  road  blocked,  and  effectually 
prevented  any  successful  attempt  to  clear  and 
use  it,  and  in  addition  extended  their  attacks 
to  further  back  and  to  other  near-by  roads, 
and  to  the  railway.  Crossing  this  line  on  one 
outward  trip  Dennis,  still  flying  his  bullet-riddled 


NO  THOROUGHFARE  193 

"Little  Indian/'  saw  a  long  and  heavily-laden 
train  toiling  slowly  towards  the  front.  It  was 
too  good  a  chance  to  miss,  so  he  swung  and  made 
for  it,  swooped  down  to  within  a  hundred  feet 
and  dropped  his  bombs.  Only  one  hit  fairly, 
and  although  that  blew  one  truck  to  pieces,  it 
left  it  on  the  rails  and  the  trains  still  crawling 
along.  But  the  Flight  followed  his  lead,  and 
one  of  their  bombs  hit  and  so  damaged 
the  engine  that  a  cloud  of  steam  came  pouring 
up  from  it  and  the  train  stopped.  Another 
long  train  was  panting  up  from  the  German  rear, 
so  the  Flight  swept  along  it  and  sprayed  it 
liberally  with  machine-gun  bullets,  scaring  the 
driver  and  fireman  into  leaping  overboard, 
and  bringing  that  train  also  to  a  standstill. 
Dennis  headed  back  home  to  bring  up  a  fresh 
stock  of  bombs,  and,  if  he  could,  damage  the 
train  beyond  possibility  of  moving,  although 
he  feared  it  was  rather  a  large  contract  for  a 
scout's  light  bombs.  But  on  the  way  back  he 
met  a  formation  of  big  two-seater  bombers 
carrying  heavy  bombs,  and  by  firing  a  few 
rounds,  diving  athwart  their  course,  and  frantic 
wavings  and  pointings  managed  to  induce  them 
to  follow  him.  Two  of  them  did,  and  he  led 
them  straight  back  to  the  two  trains.  The 
driver  and  fireman  of  the  second  had  resumed 
their  duties  and  were  trying  to  push  the  first 
train  along  when  the  bombers  arrived,  and 
planting  one  bomb  fairly  on  the  train,  started 
a  fire  going,  and  with  another  which  fell  between 
two   trucks   blew   them   off   the   metals.    The 


194  NO  THOROUGHFARE 

burning  trucks  were  just  beginning  to  blow  up 
nicely  as  our  machines  raced  for  home  and  more 
ammunition. 

The  next  hour  was  mainly  occupied  with  a 
fast  fight  against  about  twenty  Hun  machines 
evidently  brought  up  to  break  up  the  road- 
blockers'  game.  The  fight  ended  with  three 
of  the  Huns  being  left  crashed  on  the  ground, 
one  of  ours  going  down  in  flames,  and  two  strug- 
gling back  across  the  lines  with  damaged  machine 
and  engine.  Dennis  was  forced  to  leave  his 
machine  for  one  trip  and  borrow  another  while 
his  damaged  wings  were  replaced  with  new  ones. 

This  time  two  Flights  went  out  together, 
and  while  one  engaged  the  Hun  machines 
which  still  strove  to  drive  them  back,  the  other 
dived  back  on  the  road  and  again  scattered  the 
working  party  which  struggled  to  clear  the  road. 
They  had  a  hot  passage,  whirling  down  through 
a  perfect  tempest  of  machine-gun  fire,  and 
another  machine  was  lost  to  it.  Dennis  struggled 
back  across  the  lines  with  a  shot-through  radiator 
and  an  engine  seizing  up,  was  forced  to  land  as 
best  he  could,  wrecked  his  machine  in  the 
landing,  crawled  out  of  the  wreckage,  got  back 
to  the  'drome,  and  taking  over  his  repaired 
machine  went  out  again. 

'^That  road's  blocked,"  he  said  firmly,  ^'and 
she's  goin'  to  stay  blocked."  And  he  got  his 
men  to  rig  a  sort  of  banner  of  fabric  attached 
to  a  long  iron  picket-pin  harpoon  arrangement, 
painted  a  sentence  in  German  on  it,  and  took 
it  up  with  him.    They  found  the  road  still 


NO  THOROUGHFARE  195 

blocked,  but  columns  of  troops  tramping  in 
streams  over  the  fields  to  either  side.  They 
spent  a  full  hour  scattering  these  and  chasing 
them  all  over  the  landscape,  had  to  break  off 
the  game  to  take  on  another  fight  with  a  crowd 
of  Hun  scouts,  were  joined  by  a  stray  Flight 
or  two  who  saw  the  fight  and  barged  into  it, 
and  after  a  mixed  fast  and  furious  ^' dog-fight^' 
at  heights  running  from  anything  under  300 
feet  to  about  as  many  inches,  chased  the  Hun 
machines  off.  They  came  back  in  triumph 
down  the  deserted  road  and  the  empty  fields, 
spattering  the  last  of  their  rounds  into  the 
wrecked  lorries  and  wagons  still  lying  there, 
and  then,  as  they  passed  over  the  piled  wreckage 
at  the  crater,  Dennis  leaned  out  and  dropped 
his  streamered  harpoon  overboard.  It  plunged 
straight,  hit,  and  stuck  neatly  upright  displaying 
its  legend  clearly  to  anyone  on  the  ground. 

''What  was  on  it?"  said  Dennis  in  answer  to 
the  questions  of  the  Flight  later  on.  "It  was 
a  notice  in  German.  Maybe  it  was  bad  German, 
but  it  was  a  dash  good  notice.  It  said  'No 
Thoroughfare,'  and  I  fancy  we've  taught  the 
Huns  what  it  means  anyhow." 

They,  and  a  good  many  of  their  fellow  squad- 
rons, had,  on  this  and  on  other  road  and  rail 
Lines  of  Communication.  They  lost  men  and 
they  lost  machines;  but  the  expected  fresh 
attack  on  the  line  did  not  develop  at  dusk  as 
foretold. 

And  that  night  the  weary  troops  slept  a  solid 
life-renewing  six  hours. 


XVI 

THRILLS 

It  was  a  bad  day  for  kite-balloon  work;  first, 
because  the  air  was  not  clear  and  the  visibility- 
was  bad,  and  second,  because  there  was  an  un- 
comfortable wind  blowing,  and  the  balloon  was 
jerking  and  swaying  and  lurching  at  the  end  of 
its  long  tether,  making  it  hard  for  the  observers 
to  keep  a  steady  eye  on  such  targets  as  they 
could  pick  up,  and  still  harder  to  plot  out  angles 
and  ranges  on  the  map  spread  on  the  table 
sticking  out  from  the  side  of  the  basket. 

But  hard  fighting  was  going  on,  and  the  line 
was  getting  badly  hammered,  so  that  every 
balloon  which  could  get  up  was  in  the  air,  and 
every  observer  was  hunting  for  hostile  battery 
positions,  directing  the  fire  of  our  guns  on  to 
them,  and  doing  all  they  could  to  lessen  the 
shell-fire  that  was  pouring  down  on  our  infantry 
in  their  scanty  trenches.  At  times  a  swirl  of 
mist  or  cloud  came  down  and  shut  off  the  view 
altogether  from  the  balloons;  but  they  hung 
on,  and  stayed  aloft  waiting  for  a  clear  and 
the  chance  to  observe  a  few  more  rounds  the 
moment  they  got  it. 

196 


THRILLS  197 

In  one  balloon  the  two  observers  had  been 
sitting  aloft  for  hours,  after  an  early  rising  and 
a  hurried  breakfast.  They  had  only  been  having 
fleeting  targets  at  intervals  as  the  haze  cleared, 
but  any  danger  of  becoming  bored  was  removed 
by  the  activities  of  a  certain  anti-balloon  gun 
which  did  its  best  to  shoot  them  down  whenever 
it  could  get  a  sight  on  them,  and  by  the  excite- 
ment of  watching  out  for  an  air  attack  whenever 
the  low  clouds  came  down  and  offered  good 
cover  to  any  Hun  air  man  who  cared  to  sneak 
over  above  them  and  chance  an  attack. 

When  a  blanketing  mist  crawled  down  over 
the  target  again,  one  observer  swore  disgustedly 
and  spoke  down  the  telephone.  The  second 
kept  watch  round  and  listened  to  the  one-sided 
conversation.  When  it  finished,  the  first  ob- 
server turned  to  the  map.  "This  is  unpleasant, 
Dixie,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  spot  on  it.  "  We've 
lost  the  hill  out  there.*' 

"Lost  the  hill!"  said  Dixie  disconsolately. 
"Don't  talk  to  me  about  losing.  I've  lost  my 
beauty  sleep;  I've  lost  interest;  and  if  this 
cussed  gas-bag  doesn't  stop  behavin'  like  a 
cockle-boat  in  a  tide-rip,  I'm  goin'  to  lose  my 
breakfast  next." 

"It's  clearing  a  little  again,"  said  the  other 
cheerfully.  "Hope  so,  anyway.  I  want  to 
finish  that  battery  off.  Can  you  see  what  the 
line's  doing?" 

"Seems  to  be  mainly  occupied  absorbin'  Hun 
high  explosive,"  said  Dixie.  "They  don't  look 
to  be  enjoyin'  life  down  there  any  more'n  I  am 


198  THRILLS 

— an*  that^s  not  enough  to  write  to  the  papers 
about.*' 

"There  they  go!"  said  the  other.  "Spot 
that  flash?  Let's  get  on  with  it.  The  P.B.I.i 
down  on  the  floor  there  want  all  the  help  we  can 
give  'em." 

"You've  said  it,  Boy,"  remarked  Dixie,  and 
turned  to  his  spotting  again. 

Both  were  hard  at  work  five  minutes  later 
trying  to  pick  up  the  burst  of  their  shells  and 
pass  their  observations  down  to  the  guns,  when 
there  came  a  whistle  and  a  howl  and  a  loud, 
rending  c-r-r-rack!  somewhere  above  them. 

"See  here,  Boy!"  said  Dixie.  "This  is 
gettin'  too  close  to  be  pleasant,  as  the  turkey  said 
about  Christmas.  Can't  we  find  where  he's 
located  and  pitch  a  few  back  at  him?  I'm  about 
tired  of  perchin'  up  here  being  made  a  cock-shy 
of." 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  Boy.     "I'm  almost  finished 

with    this    other    battery.      Maybe Look 

out!    Here  she  comes  again!" 

"Look  out!"  retorted  Dixie,  when  the  shell 
had  howled  up  and  burst  in  a  cloud  of  filthy 
black  smoke  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  out 
and  on  their  level.  "Pleasant  prospect  to  look 
out  at.  Hades!  Here's  another.  Say,  Boy, 
this  is  gettin'  too  hot,  as  Casablanca  said  to  the 
burnin'  deck.  He's  got  our  elevation  all  right, 
and  if  we  don't  change  it  he'll  get  us  next, 
for  sure." 

The  closeness  of  the  shot  had  been  observed 

*  Poor  Blanky  Infantry. 


THRILLS  199 

below,  and,  after  a  brief  telephoned  talk,  the 
balloon  was  hauled  rapidly  down  a  thousand 
feet.  Another  shell  crashed  angrily  above  them 
as  it  went  down. 

The  next  hour  was  a  highly  unpleasant  one 
to  the  two  observers.  The  "anti''  gun  was 
plainly  out  to  down  them,  and  kept  pitching 
shell  after  shell  with  most  discomforting  accuracy 
all  around  them.  The  winch  below  hauled  them 
down  and  let  them  soar  up  to  all  sorts  of  vary- 
ing elevations  in  strenuous  endeavours  to  cheat 
the  gunners,  while  the  two  observers  did  their 
best  to  pick  up  targets  and  lay  their  guns  on  to 
them,  and  the  anti  shells  continued  to  scream 
up  and  burst  about  them.  Several  times  the 
explosions  were  so  close  that  it  appeared  certain 
the  envelope  must  be  holed,  and  the  observers 
stopped  work  and  waited  with  held  breath  to 
discover  whether  they  were  sinking  and  if  they 
would  have  to  jump  for  it  and  trust  to  their 
parachutes.  But  the  balloon  held  up,  and  the 
two  continued  their  shoot.  It  was  unpleasant, 
highly  unpleasant,  but  the  hard-pressed  infantry 
wanted  all  the  assistance  the  guns  could  give 
them,  and  the  guns  wanted  all  the  help  air 
observation  could  give;  so  the  observers  held  on, 
and  chanced  the  shells,  and  kept  their  guns  going 
on  such  targets  as  they  could  pick  out  of  the  dull 
light  and  grey  mist. 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  as  the  time  dragged 
past,  the  strain  began  to  tell  on  the  tempers 
of  both  men.  The  only  respite  they  had  from 
the  continued  torment  of  the  anti-balloon  gun 


200  THRILLS 

was  when  the  mist  closed  down  on  them;  and 
then  the  strain  was  in  no  way  lessened,  but 
altered  only  to  that  of  watching  out  for  an  attack- 
ing enemy. 

And  that  looked-for  attack  came  at  last. 
There  came  a  sudden  and  urgent  call  on  the 
telephone  from  below,  and  both  men  strained 
their  eyes  out  through  the  lifting  haze  to  the 
next  balloon  in  the  line  and,  with  an  instinctive 
fumbling  at  the  attachment  of  their  parachute 
harness,  made  ready  to  jump.  But  what  they 
saw  held  them  spellbound  for  a  moment.  The 
next  balloon  in  the  line  was  being  attacked.  It 
was  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away;  but  the 
silhouette  of  a  plane  could  clearly  be  seen 
swooping  down  on  the  defenceless  balloon, 
flashes  of  fire  spitting  and  streaking  from  his 
guns  as  he  came.  The  two  balloon-men  leaped 
over  the  edge  of  the  basket.  One  plunged  down 
the  regulation  distance,  his  parachute  fluttered 
open  with  a  shimmer  of  gleaming  silk  that  looked 
exactly  like  a  bursting  puff  of  white  smoke, 
began  to  drop  down  in  wide  pendulum  swings. 
But  with  the  second  man^s  parachute  something 
plainly  had  gone  wrong.  Dixie  and  the  Boy, 
clutching  the  sides  of  their  basket  and  staring 
horror-stricken,  gasped  as  they  saw  the  little 
figure  go  plunging  plummet-wise  hundreds  after 
hundreds  of  feet  .  .  .  hundreds  . . .  thousands  . . . 
and  still  the  parachute  followed  in  a  solid  un- 
opened black  dot.  The  balloon  was  near  3,000 
feet  up  when  the  man  jumped,  and  he  and  the 
parachute  went  down  3,000  feet,  as  a  stone 


THRILLS  201 

would  drop  down  a  welL  Dixie  and  the  Boy 
watched  fascinated,  tried  to  turn  their  heads 
or  shut  their  eyes — and  couldn't. 

When  it  was  over,  Dixie  spoke  hurriedly. 
*'Come  on,  kid!    Over!    Or  it's  our  turn  next!" 

But  to  watch  a  parachute  fail  to  open,  and  the 
next  instant  to  trust  your  life  to  the  proper 
working  of  your  own,  is  rather  a  severe  test, 
and  it  is  little  wonder  that  both  Dixie  and  the 
Boy  waited  another  second  watching  and  wait- 
ing before  leaping  over.  They  saw  a  lick  of 
flame  flicker  along  the  top  of  the  attacked 
balloon,  die  down,  flash  out  again — and  then 
caught  sight  of  the  Hun  scout  wheeling  and 
heading  for  their  balloon.  The  winch  below  was 
hauling  down  with  frantic  haste;  but  there  is 
Httle  hope  of  pulling  down  a  K.B.  3,000  feet 
in  anything  like  the  time  it  takes  a  fast  scout 
to  cover  500  yards,  and  the  Boy,  taking  a  gulping 
breath,  was  on  the  point  of  jumping,  when  Dixie 
clutched  at  him  and  cried — croaked  is  a  truer 
word — hoarsely  at  him.  The  new  act  of  the 
drama  was  begun  and  ended  almost  quicker 
that  the  first.  Out  of  the  grey  mist  another 
plunging  shape  emerged,  hurtling  straight  across 
the  path  of  the  enemy  scout,  its  guns  streaming 
fire,  clattering  a  long  postman-knock  tat-tat-tat- 
tat.  The  enemy  machine  swerved  violently, 
missed  collision  by  bare  yards,  swept  round, 
thrust  his  nose  down  and  tried  to  dive  away.  But 
the  other  machine  was  after  him  and  on  him  Hke 
a  hawk  after  a  pigeon,  clinging  to  his  tail  and 
pelting  fire  at  him.    A  gust  of  sooty  black  smoke 


202  THRILLS 

puffed  from  the  leading  machine,  a  spurt  of 
flashing  fire  followed,  and  it  went  diving  head- 
long with  flame  and  clouds  of  smoke  trailing 
after. 

**Boy,^'  said  Dixie  unsteadily,  "I've  mighty 
near  had  balloonin'  enough  for  one  morning's 
amusement!" 

The  telephone  was  caUing,  and  the  Boy  turned 
to  answer  it.  But  before  he  spoke  there  rose 
to  them  again  the  shrieking  rush  of  an  approach- 
ing shell — a  rush  that  rose  to  a  shriek,  a  bellow, 
and  ended  in  an  appalUng  crash  that  sent  the 
balloon  reeling  and  jerking  at  its  tether.  Again 
both  men  fingered  the  parachute  harness  buckled 
about  them  and  stared  up  intent  and  uneasy  at 
the  swaying  envelope  above  them.  Before  they 
could  decide  whether  it  was  hit  or  not  another 
wailing  yowl  heralded  another  shell,  another 
rending  crash,  another  leaping  cloud  of  black 
smoke  just  below  them,  the  shriek  and  whistle 
of  flying  fragments  up  past  them,  told  of  another 
deadly  close  burst.  Choking  black  smoke 
swirled  up  on  them,  and  the  Boy  began  to  shout 
hurriedly  into  his  telephone. 

"Tell  'em  the  basket's  shot  full  of  holes," 
said  Dixie,  "and  my  parachute's  got  a  rip  in 
it  big  enough  to  put  your  fist  in.     And  tell " 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  The  pitching,  tossing, 
jerking  of  the  tethered  balloon  had  changed  to 
a  significant  smoothness  and  dead  calm.  The 
Boy  dropped  his  telephone  receiver.  "Dixie," 
he  gasped,  "we're — we're  adrift!" 
^  Dixie  took  one  swift  look  over  the  edge  of 


THRILLS  203 

the  basket.  '^YouVe  said  it/'  he  drawled, 
"an'  that  ends  the  shoot,  anyway." 

"Should  we  jump  for  it?''  asked  the  Boy 
hurriedly. 

"If  you  feel  like  it,  go  ahead,"  said  Dixie, 
"but  not  for  mine,  thank'ee.  My  parachute's 
shot  up  to  glory,  an',  anyhow,  we're  driftin' 
back  over  our  own  lines.  I'd  as  soon  stay  with 
her  till  she  bumps." 

"I  think  she's  dropping,"  said  the  Boy. 
"The  shell  that  cut  the  cable,  maybe,  holed  the 
gas-bag,  and  she'll  come  down  with  a  run." 

"We're  comin'  down  all  right,"  said  Dixie 
philosophically,  "but  not  fast  enough  to  hurt. 
You  jump  if  you  like.  I'm  goin'  to  hang  on  and 
pull  the  rippin'-cord  when  she's  near  the  floor." 

But  the  remembrance  of  that  other  observer, 
falling  like  a  bullet  beneath  an  unopened  para- 
chute, was  too  close  to  encourage  the  Boy  to 
leap,  and  the  two  waited,  hanging  over  the  edge 
of  the  basket,  watching  the  ground  drift  past 
beneath  them,  trying  to  gauge  how  fast  the 
balloon  was  coming  down.  It  fell  slowly,  very 
slowly,  at  first,  losing  height  so  gradually  that  it 
was  hard  even  to  say  it  was  losing.  It  began  to 
look  as  if  the  two  were  in  for  an  easy  and  com- 
fortable descent  without  leaving  the  balloon. 
Then  plainly  the  rate  of  descent  began  to  quicken. 
The  ground  began  to  swirl  up  to  them  at  an 
alarming  speed;  the  balloon,  which  had  up  to 
now  been  drifting  so  smoothly  that  its  mov- 
ment  could  hardly  be  felt,  started  to  lurch  down 
in  sickening  swerves  and  drops  and  swings. 


204  THRILLS 

''Boy/*  said  Dixie  seriously,  ''I  dunno  you 
hadn't  better  chance  it  an'  jump.  Looks  like 
this  or  sausage  was  punctured  bad,  an'  I'm 
gettin'  to  think  she's  goin'  to  phut  out  quick 
an'  go  down  wallop.  S'pose  you  jump,  an'  I 
hang  on  to  her.     My  parachute " 

''Take  mine,"  said  the  Boy  quickly.  "I'd 
as  soon  stay  with  her." 

"Nothin'  doin',"  answered  Dixie.  "Para- 
chute jumps  is  no  popular  pastime  of  mine  at 
the  moment,  an'  I  don't  mind  ownin'  to  it." 

So  both  waited,  Dixie  with  his  hand  on  the 
ripping-cord,  both  with  their  heads  over  the  side, 
their  eyes  fixed  on  the  passing  ground.  There 
was  a  strong  wind  blowing,  and,  as  they  came 
closer  to  the  ground,  they  began  to  discover  the 
surprising  speed  at  which  they  were  travelling, 
to  feel  a  good  deal  uneasy  about  the  crash  with 
which  they  must  hit  solid  earth.  The  balloon 
was  falling  now  at  dangerous  speed,  and,  worse, 
was  coming  down  in  a  series  of  wild  swings  and 
swayings. 

"The  wood!"  shouted  Dixie,  pointing  out 
and  down.     "Better  crash  her  in  it,  eh?" 

"Go  on,"  answered  the  Boy  briefly. 

The  next  minute  was  rather  a  nightmare — a 
wild  impression  of  a  sickening  plunge,  of  tearing 
crackling  noises,  of  breaking  branches,  of  a  basket 
jerking,  tossing,  leaping,  falling,  bouncing  and 
falling  again,  and  finally  coming  to  rest  amongst 
the  crashing  tree-tops,  hanging  there  a  moment, 
tearing  free  and,  faUing  and  bringing  up  com- 
pletely with  a  bump  amongst  the  lower  branches, 


THRILLS  205 

while  the  envelope  settled  and  sagged  and  flopped 
in  another  crescendo  of  cracklings  and  rippings 
and  tearings  on  top  of  the  trees.  The  two  clung 
for  dear  life  to  their  basket;  were  jerked  and 
wrenched  almost  from  their  grip  a  dozen  times; 
hung  on  expecting  every  moment  to  be  their 
last;  felt  the  basket  at  last  settle  and  steady, 
and  cease  to  do  its  best  to  hurl  them  overboard. 

They  climbed  over,  caught  stray  cords,  and 
slid  thankfully  to  firm  ground.  ^^Did  it  ever 
strike  you,  Boy,"  said  Dixie,  ''what  a  pleasant 
thing  a  lump  of  plain  solid  dirt  under  your  feet 
can  be?" 

That  ended  their  adventure  so  far  as  the  air 
was  concerned.  But  it  cost  them  an  hour^s 
tramp  to  find  a  main  road  and  discover  where 
they  were;  and  another  hour  to  tramp  along  it 
to  a  fair-sized  town  where  there  might  be  an  inn 
or  hotel.  A  mile-stone  on  the  roadside  gave 
them  their  whereabouts  and  surprised  them  by 
the  distance  they  had  drifted  back. 

They  set  their  faces  east  and  began  a  steady 
tramp.  The  road  was  rather  crowded  with  a 
stream  of  French  civilians  all  moving  west,  and, 
as  they  walked,  the  crowd  grew  closer  and  more 
solid  and  showed  plainer  signs  of  haste  and 
anxiety.  There  were  no  troops  on  the  road; 
it  was  wholly  filled  with  civilians — women  and 
children  and  very  old  men  for  the  best  part,  all 
laden  with  bundles  or  pulling  or  pushing  or 
driving  vehicles  of  every  sort  and  description. 
There  was  a  cow  dragged  behind  an  old  woman 
and  a  child,  a  huge  bed-mattress  bundled  and 


206  THRILLS 

roped  on  its  back;  a  perambulator  piled  high 
with  clothing  and  blankets,  and  with  a  baby 
nested  down  in  the  middle  of  the  pile;  an  old 
man  leading  a  young  child  and  carrying  a  bird- 
cage with  two  full-sized  chickens  crammed  into 
it;  a  decrepit  cart  and  still  more  decrepit  pony, 
with  a  load  of  furniture  that  might  have  filled 
a  pantechnicon;  a  family,  apparently  of  mother 
and  five  children  of  descending  ages  and  sizes, 
but  each  with  a  bundle  hugged  close;  an  old 
bent  woman  tottering  a  step  at  a  time  on  two 
sticks.  All  trailed  along  wearily  in  a  slow 
drifting  mass;  and  all,  except  the  very  young 
children,  were  casting  uneasy  glances  over  their 
shoulders,  were  evidently  struggling  to  put  as 
many  paces  as  possible  between  them  and 
their  starting-point. 

Dixie  and  the  Boy  knew  well  what  it  all 
meant — merely  the  evacuation  of  another 
village  that  had  come  within  shell-range  of  the 
Hun,  or  was  near  enough  to  the  shifting  battle- 
line  to  make  it  wise  to  escape  before  all  in  it 
were  engulfed,  made  prisoner,  and  set  to  slavery 
in  the  fields  on  starvation  rations  for  Hun  task- 
masters, or,  worse,  deported,  torn  apart,  child 
from  mother,  weak  from  strong,  helpless  from 
helpers,  and  deported  to  far-off  factories  or  the 
terrors  of  an  unknown  fate.  The  French  and 
Belgians  have  learned  their  lesson — learned  it 
slow  and  hard  and  bitterly — that  it  is  bad  to  be 
driven  to  leave  all  they  own  on  earth,  but 
infinitely  worse  to  stay  and  still  lose  all,  and 
more  in  the  *'aU"  than  mere  earthly  possessions. 


^  THRILLS  207 

1  Dixie  and  the  Boy  tramped  slowly  against  the 
tide  of  refugees  and  drew  at  last  to  near  the  town 
from  which  the  stream  was  pouring.  It  was  all 
very  pitiful,  very  cruel.  But  worse  was  to  come. 
The  road  was  one  of  those  long  main  national 
route  highways  common  in  France,  running 
straight  as  a  ruler  for  miles  on  end,  up  hill  and 
down  dale.  The  roofs  of  the  village  were  half  a 
mile  away,  and  suddenly,  over  these  roofs,  an 
aeroplane  came  skimming.  It  flew  low,  and  it 
flew  in  a  bee-line  along  above  the  wide  straight 
road;  and  as  it  flew  there  sounded  louder 
and  plainer  the  unmistakable  ac-ac-ac-ac  of  a 
machine-gun;  there  was  plainly  to  be  seen  a 
stream  of  spitting  fire  flashing  from  the  flying 
shape.  It  swept  nearer,  and  the  clatter  of  its  guns 
sounded  now  through  a  rising  wail,  a  chorus  of 
shrieks  and  calls  and  sharp  screams,  and  the  cries 
of  frightened  or  hurt  children.  The  gun  shut  off 
abruptly  as  the  machine  swooped  up;  burst 
out  again  in  a  long  savage  tattoo  as  it  curved 
over  and  came  roaring  down  in  a  steep  dive.  In 
the  road  there  was  a  pandemonium  of  screams 
and  cries :  a  wild  turmoil  of  figures  rushing  hither 
and  thither,  flinging  down  into  the  ditches, 
scrambling  over  them  and  fleeing  in  terror  out 
over  the  open  fields.  As  the  machine  dived 
the  two  observers  could  see  the  streaking  lines 
of  the  tracer  bullets,  hear  the  sharp  cracks  and 
smacks  of  explosives  hitting  the  ground — and 
other  things.  They  could  only  stand  and  curse 
in  impotent  rage,  and  the  Hun  machine,  with  a 
rush  and  a  roar,  spat  a  last  handful  of  bullets 


208  THRILLS 

over  and  past  them  and  was  gone  on  down  the 
road.  The  two  stood  and  watched  its  graceful 
soaring  and  plunging,  Hstened  to  the  steady  rattle 
of  its  guns,  swore  savagely  again,  then  turned 
to  help  some  of  the  shrieking  women  and  crying 
children  about  them.  But  next  moment  another 
distant  tat-tat-tat  made  them  look  up  to  see 
another  black-crossed  machine,  and  then  a 
third,  leap  into  sight  over  the  village  and  come 
tearing  down  above  the  road.  Dixie  and  the 
Boy  both  filled  the  few  intervening  seconds  try- 
ing to  hustle  the  fear-stricken  villagers  off  the 
road  down  into  the  cover  of  the  ditches,  behind 
carts — anywhere  that  might  be  out  of  reach  of 
the  bullets.  But  the  newcomers  had  gone  one 
better  than  bullets  for  fiendish  destruction.  As 
the  first  one  approached  a  black  blob  fell  away 
from  it,  and  next  second  there  was  a  rending 
crash,  a  leaping  cloud  of  smoke  and  dust  whirl- 
ing and  eddying  up  from  the  road.  The  machine 
roared  over  and  past,  with  her  machine-gun 
hailing  bullets  down  the  road,  and  far  down  the 
road  came  another  billowing  cloud  of  smoke  and 
the  crash  of  another  bomb.  The  third  machine 
followed  close,  also  machine-gunning  hard  and 
also  splashing  bombs  down  at  intervals,  one 
faUing  with  horrible  effect  fairly  in  a  little  crowd 
of  women  and  children  clustered  under  and  behind 
a  country  cart.  The  cart  was  wrecked,  and  the 
horse  and  half  of  the  women  and  children.  .  .  . 
The  two  observers  gave  what  help  they  could, 
their  faces  white  and  their  hands  shaking  and 
their  ears  tingling  as  they  worked.     The  whole 


THRILLS  209 

scene  after  the  passing  of  the  destroyers  was 
heart-rending\nd  pitiful  and  far  too  horrible  for 
description.  And  the  cruel  part  of  it  was  that 
it  was  all  such  useless  destruction,  such  wanton 
savagery,  such  a  brutal  and  wilful  slaughter  of 
the  innocents.  The  low-fliers  were  too  close 
down  for  there  to  be  any  possibility  of  their  not 
knowing  well  what  they  were  shooting  and 
bombing.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  a  uniform  on 
the  road;  it  was  packed  with  what  clearly  and 
unmistakably  was  a  crowd  of  refugees,  of  help- 
less women  and  children.  It  was  hard  to 
imagine  what  the  Huns  hoped  to  gain,  what 
object  they  could  have  had  in  such  indiscrimin- 
ate murder;  but,  object  or  no  object,  its  happen- 
ing is  a  matter  of  cold  history. 

It  was  growing  late  when  the  two  observers, 
continuing  their  journey,  saw  a  distant  aero- 
drome, made  their  way  across  the  fields  to  it, 
explained  themselves,  and  were  offered  dinner 
first,  and  then  transport  back  to  their  unit. 

The  two  told  their  tale  of  the  day  while  they 
waited  with  the  Squadron  for  dinner  to  be  served. 
It  was  dark  by  this  time,  and  an  annoying  delay 
came  before  dinner  in  the  shape  of  an  order  to 
put  all  lights  out,  and  in  the  droning  approach 
of  some  enemy  bombers.  They  passed  some- 
where overhead,  and  the  machine-gun  defences 
fired  a  few  streams  of  ineffectual  bullets  up  at 
them.  One  bomb  whistled  and  shrieked  down 
and  burst  noisily  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the 
'drome  and  others  farther  afield.  The  pilots 
and  the  two  observers  were  collected  again  just 


210  THRILLS 

outside  the  door  of  the  mess  listening  to  the 
distant  drone  of  the  Hun  bombers,  watching  the 
flicker  and  jump  of  gun  flashes  in  the  horizon 
and  a  red  glare  that  rose  in  a  wide  steady  glow 
from  one  or  two  points.  It  was  an  unpleasant 
reminder  of  the  trying  time  the  Army  was  having, 
of  the  retreat  they  had  made,  of  the  stores  and 
dumps  that  had  been  fired  to  prevent  the  enemy 
taking  possession  of  them. 

One  of  the  pilots — a  youngster  of  under  twenty, 
with  two  wound  stripes  on  his  cuff — laughed 
suddenly.  ^'That  Hun  bomber  just  about 
rounds  off  a  complete  day  of  frightfulness  for 
you  two  fellows, ''  he  said.  '^You  have  had  a 
lively  time,  one  way  and  another.*' 

"We  have,"  said  Dixie.  "IVe  had  thrills 
enough  for  this  day  to  fill  a  boy's  adventure 
library  full  an'  overflowin'." 

'^Too  many  for  me,"  said  the  Boy,  ''when  I 
think  of  watching  that  man  go  down  with  an 
unopened  parachute." 

''It  was  worse  seeing  that  Hun  come  down  the 
road,"  said  Dixie,  "and  bein'  able  to  do  nothin' 
to  stop  him.  An'  when  I  think  of  that  mother 
with  a  dead  baby,  an'  that  kid — a  girl — about 

five  years  old,  that  an  explosive  bullet " 

And  he  stopped  abruptly. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  broken  by  the 
young  pilot. 

"Speaking  of  thrills,"  he  said,  and  laughed 
again,  "there  was  a  paragraph— some  of  you 
will  remember  how  we  grinned  over  it.  Wonder 
if  I  could  find  the  paper?  It  would  tickle  you 
diving  balloonatics  especially.     I'll  see,"  and  he 


THRILLS  211 

disappeared  into  the  mess-room  and  began  to 
hunt  round  with  an  electric  torch. 

He  found  the  paper  and  brought  it  out  and 
read  the  paragraph  by  the  light  of  his  torch. 
It  was  headed  '^60,000  Thrills,"  and  it  rani^ 
'*A  Blanktown  cable,  received  by  the  Chief 
Representative  for  Blancountry,  states:  At  an 
aquatic  carnival,  held  by  the  Big  Stone  Swim- 
ming Club  at  Light  Falls,  there  was  an  attend- 
ance of  60,000.  The  proceeds  go  to  the  Soldier's 
Fund.  Prince  Walkiyick — known  as  Alec 
Walker  the  Middle  Seas  sprint  champion — 
dived  from  a  height  of  200  feet  into  the  water. 
He  was  two  seconds  in  the  air  and  thrilled  the 
spectators  with  his  exploit." 

'^Good  Lord!"  said  the  Boy  helplessly. 

'* Thrilled  the  spectators,"  repeated  Dixie. 
''Thrilled  .  .  .  well,  if  that  doesn't  take  it." 

The  young  pilot  was  laughing  again,  long  and 
immoderately,  and  some  of  the  others,  looking 
at  the  two  observers'  faces,  had  to  join  him. 

''Sixty  thousand,  you  said,"  the  Boy  was  be- 
ginning, when  he  was  interrupted  by  a  distant 
boom — boom — boom, 

*'  Huns  bombing  Blanqueville  again,"  said  the 
young  pilot.  ''More  women  and  kid  casualties, 
I  suppose." 

Dixie  was  cursing,   low  but  very  intensely. 

"If  those  spectators  are  out  for  thrills "  he 

said,  and  looked  to  where  a  red  glow  was  begin- 
ning to  rise  in  the  sky  over  Blanqueville. 

1  Except  that  names  are  altered,  the  paragraph  is  reprinted 
here  word  for  word  as  it  appeared  in  a  daily  paper  and  was 
read  by  thousands  of  men  in  the  line  at  the  time  of  the  first 
retreat  in  the  spring  of  1918.    I  have  the  cutting  now. — B.  C 


XVII 

THE  SEQUEL 

There  was  a  strike  in  one  of  the  aircraft 
factories;  in  fact,  there  were  simultaneous 
strikes  in  many,  if  not  most,  of  the  factories, 
although  for  the  moment  this  story  is  con- 
cerned only  with  one  of  them — or  rather  with 
its  sequel.  At  the  front  they  knew  little  or 
nothing  of  the  strike,  although,  unfortunately, 
they  knew  a  good  deal  of  the  result.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  workers  probably  know  nothing 
of  what  their  strikes  may  mean  to  the  front, 
and  this  is  what  I  want  to  tell  them.  They 
have,  it  is  true,  been  publicly  told  by  a  member 
of  the  Government  that  the  strikes  resulted  in 
a  waste  of  so  many  hours^  work,  a  shortage 
or  reduction  of  output  of  some  hundreds  of 
machines,  and  so  on;  but  these  things  are  a 
matter  of  cold  figures.  If  they  are  told  the 
result  in  flesh  and  blood,  they  may  look  at  a 
strike  in  rather  a  different  Hght. 

One  Squadron  in  France  first  ''felt  the  breeze" 
of  the  strike  in  a  drying  up  of  the  stream  of 
''spares"  and  parts  that  are  constantly  required 
for  repair,  and  the  mechanics  having  to  make 

212 


THE  SEQUEL  213 

good  this  shortage  by  many  night  hours*  sheer 
hard  labour,  by  working  long  shifts  when  they 
ought  to  have  been  sleeping,  by  hacking  out 
with  cold  chisel  and  hammer,  and  turning  upon 
overworked  lorry-shop  lathes,  and  generally 
making  by  hand  what  the  idle  machines  in  the 
factories  should  have  been  punching  out  in 
dozens  on  a  stamping  machine,  or  turning  com- 
fortably on  automatic  lathes. 

That  was  a  minor  item  of  the  strike's  sequel. 
Another  and  more  serious  item  in  the  same 
Squadron  was  that  one  or  two  machines,  which 
had  been  marked  off  for  return  to  the  depots 
and  complete  overhaul  and  setting  up,  had  to 
be  kept  in  commission  and  hard  at  work.  This 
was  unpleasantly  risky,  because  at  this  time 
the  Squadron  was  very  actively  engaged  in  the 
preparation  for  a  coming  Push,  and  the  machines 
were  putting  in  even  more  than  a  fair  average 
of  flying  hours.  The  life  of  a  machine  is  strictly 
limited  and  countable  in  these  "flying  hours," 
and  after  a  certain  Ufe  machine  and  engine, 
with  constant  wear,  and  despite  regular  and 
careful  looking  after  by  the  Squadron  mechanics, 
come  to  be  so  strained  and  shaky  that  for  safe 
flying  they  must  have  such  a  thorough  overhaul 
and  tuning  up  that  it  almost  amounts  to  a 
rebuilding. 

One  particular  machine  in  the  Squadron — 
the  old  "Gamecock" — ^had  for  some  time  back 
been  getting  rather  rickety  and  was  to  have 
been  replaced  before  the  anticipated  heavy 
operations  of  the  air  activity  that  would  open 


214  THE  SEQUEL 

the  way  for  the  Push.  One  out  of  those  hun- 
dreds of  the  strike's  lost  machines  should  have 
come  to  the  Squadron  to  release  the  '^  Game- 
cock," but,  of  course,  when  it  did  not  come 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  keep  the  '*  Game- 
cock" flying.  She  managed  to  gj;G  through 
her  share  in  the  work  without  d.ny  further 
trouble  than  a  still  further  straining,  and  an 
engine  which  for  all  the  labour  lavished  on  it 
grew  more  and  more  unreliable.  She  carried 
on  up  to  the  actual  morning  of  the  Push,  and 
her  pilot  and  observer,  the  FUght  and  Squadron 
Commanders  alike  heaved  sighs  of  relief  to 
think  that  the  rush  was  nearly  over,  that  there 
would  be  no  further  urgent  need  to  risk  her  in 
the  air.  But  as  it  happened  their  relief  was 
premature,  and  there  was  still  a  ^^show"  and 
a  serious  one  for  the  ''Gamecock"  to  take  a 
part  in. 

The  Squadron  was  an  artillery  observing  one, 
whose  work  it  was  to  fly  over  the  enemy's 
lines  and  observe  the  fire  of  our  batteries  on 
selected  targets,  and,  "spotting"  where  their 
shells  fell,  wireless  back  to  our  guns  the  necessary 
corrections  of  aim  to  bring  them  on  the  target. 
The  night  before  the  Push  a  reconnoitring 
Squadron  had  discovered  a  fresh  group  of 
enemy  batteries,  and  Headquarters  allotted  the 
destruction  of  these  to  various  batteries  in  con- 
junction with  certain  artillery  flying  Squadrons. 
The  ''Gamecock's"  Squadron  was  included, 
and  since  there  was  already  a  heavy  morning's 
work  portioned  out  to  the  Squadron,  there  was 


THE  SEQUEL  215 

nothing  for  it  but  to  detail  the  '^Gamecock" 
to  help  handle  the  fre.ih  job. 

'^Do  it?"  said  her  pilot  scornfully  in  answer 
to  a  doubting  que  cion  from  the  observer. 
*' Course  she  can  do  it,  and  a  dozen  jobs  on  top 
of  it.     There's  nothing  wrong  with  her.'' 

"Oh  no,  nothing  whatever,"  said  the  observer 
sarcastically.  **  You'd  claim  there  was  nothing 
wrong  with  her  if  her  engine  turned  round  once 
a  week,  or  if  her  planes  were  warped  like  a  letter 
S.  How  many  times  did  her  engine  cut  out 
to-day?  And  she  was  rattling  like  a  bag  of 
old  bones  when  you  were  stunting  her  to  dodge 
those  *  Archies,'  till  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  shake  herself  into  the  scrap-heap  right  away." 

"Rats,"  said  the  pilot  stoutly.  "She's  strong 
as  a  house." 

The  Flight  Commander  evidently  did  not 
agree  with  him,  to  judge  by  the  conversation 
he  had  that  night  with  the  CO.  "I  hate  send- 
ing the  *  Gamecock,'"  he  said.  "But  I  suppose 
there's  no  help  for  it." 

"Afraid  not,"  said  the  Major.  "Every 
machine  had  enough  to  do  before,  and  this 
new  job  will  give  them  all  their  hands  full. 
We  just  must  send  every  machine  we've  got." 

The  Flight  Commander  sighed.  "All  right. 
I  do  wish  they'd  replaced  her  though,  as  they 
promised  to  do  a  week  ago.  Wonder  why  they 
haven't." 

"Well,  a  machine  isn't  made  as  easy  as 
knitting  a  sock,  you  know,"  said  the  Major. 
"I  dare  say  it's  a  hard  job  to  keep  up  to  the 


216  THE  SEQUEL 

wastage.  Four  machines  weVe  had  crashed 
and  replaced  ourselves  In  this  last  week.  I 
suppose  those  people  in  ti  3  factories  can't  keep 
up  the  pace,  even  working  night  and  day." 
(The  Squadrons  knew  liitle  or  nothing  of  the 
strikes  then.  What  they  and  the  Major  would 
have  said  if  they  had  known,  what  they  did 
say  when  they  came  to  know,  is  a  different 
story — quite  a  different  story.) 

There  was  just  one  hour  of  light  before  the 
time  set  for  the  attack,  the  '*zero  hour''  when 
the  infantry  would  go  over  the  top,  and  that 
hour  was  filled  with  a  final  intensive  bombard- 
ment that  set  the  earth  and  air  quivering  like 
a  beaten  drum.  The  '* Gamecock"  and  the 
rest  of  the  Squadron  were  up  and  over  the 
lines  with  the  first  glint  of  light,  and  the  fighting 
scouts  were  out  with  them  and  busily  scrapping 
with  any  Hun  machines  that  came  near  or  tried 
to  interfere  with  the  artillery  and  reconnoitring 
machines. 

The  '* Gamecock"  waddled  off  to  her  ap- 
pointed place,  and  after  picking  up  the  targets 
with  a  good  deal  of  difficulty,  owing  to  the 
billowing  clouds  of  shell  smoke  and  dust,  and 
getting  in  wireless  touch  with  the  first  battery, 
the  observer  waited  till  the  machine  was  in  a 
favourable  position  to  let  him  see  the  shot  and 
signalled  the  battery  to  fire.  For  half  an 
hour  the  *' Gamecock"  circled  steadily  with  a 
fairly  heavy  ^'Archie"  fire  breaking  about  her, 
and  the  observer  picking  up  one  target  after 
another  and  putting  the  guns  on  to  it.    As 


THE  SEQUEL  217 

fast  as  he  signalled  back  that  a  direct  hit  had 
been  obtained  he  weiit  on  to  the  next  target 
and  observed  for  another  battery,  while  the 
battery  he  had  just  Snished  with  proceeded  to 
pour  a  hurricane  of  ii^gh  explosive  on  the  spot 
it  had  ''registered,"  and  to  blot  the  enemy 
battery  there  out  of  active  existence. 

Then  the  *'Gamecock^s"  work  was  inter- 
rupted. A  couple  of  Hun  scouts  dropped  like 
plummets  out  of  the  clouds  and  dived  straight 
for  the  ''Gamecock,''  their  machine-guns  rattling 
rapidly  as  they  came.  The  observer  at  the 
first  sound  of  their  shots  whipped  round  from 
where  he  was  hanging  overside  watching  his 
target  below,  glanced  up  and  grabbed  for  his 
machine-gun.  He  hastily  jerked  the  muzzle 
in  the  direction  of  the  coming  Huns  and  ripped 
off  a  burst  of  fire,  and  at  the  same  moment 
heard  the  sharp  hiss  of  their  passing  bullets, 
saw  the  streaking  flashes  of  fire  from  their 
tracers  flame  by.  One  hostile  finished  his  dive 
in  a  sharp  upward  "zoom''  just  before  he 
came  down  to  the  level  of  the  "Gamecock," 
whirled  round  in  a  climbing  turn,  plunged 
straight  down  again  at  the  "Gamecock,"  open- 
ing fire  as  he  came,  and  before  reaching  her 
level  repeated  his  tactics  of  zooming  up  and 
turning.  The  other  Hun  hurtled  down  past 
the  "Gamecock's"  tail,  turned  under  her,  and 
whirled  upward,  firing  at  her  underbody.  The 
observer  ceased  fire  a  moment  and  tapped 
back  a  message  on  his  wireless  to  the  battery 
saying  the  last  round  was  "unobserved,"    He 


218  THE  SEQUEL 

used  the  code  of  course  which  condenses  messages 
into  one  or  two  Morse  let^yers,  and  knowing  that 
the  battery  would  not  fira  until  he  passed  the 
word  that  he  was  ready  again,  he  turned  his 
attention  to  driving  off  the  two  machines  that 
plunged  firing  at  them.  The  underneath  one 
was  practically  concealed  from  him,  so  he 
first  directed  a  carefully  aimed  burst  of  fire  on 
the  top  one  as  once  more  it  dived  on  them  and 
its  bullets  whipped  flaming  past.  He  put  in 
another  burst  as  the  Hun  spun  up  and  away 
again,  then  leaned  out  over  the  side  and  just 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  lower  machine  driving 
up  at  them.  He  swung  his  machine-gun  round 
on  its  turret  mounting  aind,  thrusting  the 
muzzle  down,  rattled  off  a  score  of  rounds.  At 
the  same  moment  he  heard  the  crack  and  rip 
of  bullets  tearing  through  their  wings,  and  heard 
also  the  sharp  rat-tat-tat  of  the  overhead  enemy's 
gun  reopening  fire.  The  observer  swung  his 
gun  upward  again,  took  a  long  breath,  and 
directed  careful  aim  on  the  body  whirling  down 
on  them.  He  realised  that  the  game  was  too 
one-sided,  that  with  two  fast  enemies  attacking 
in  concert  from  above  and  below,  it  was  merely 
a  matter  of  minutes  for  the  '^Gamecock"  to 
be  sunk,  unless  he  could  down  one  of  the  two 
hostiles  first.  He  opened  fire  carefully  and 
steadily. 

Up  to  now  the  pilot  had  been  unable  to  take 
any  part  in  the  fight,  because  his  gun  only  fired 
directly  forward  and  the  Huns  had  taken  care 
to  keep  astern  of  him.    But  now  he  suddenly 


THE  SEQUEL  219 

throttled  down  and  checked  the  speed  of  the 
'^Gamecock"  by  thr listing  her  nose  up  and 
'^stalling"  her.  The  move  answered,  and  next 
instant  the  upper  machine  swept  forward  and 
up  and  ahead  of  them.  The  pilot  opened  his 
engine  full  out  and  drove  for  his  enemy,  pelt- 
ing fire  upon  her.  His  bullets  went  straight 
and  true  to  their  mark,  and  the  Hun,  hearing 
them  tear  through  his  fabrics,  dipped  over  and 
plunged  hastily  down  a  full  thousand  feet.  The 
'^Gamecock"  heaved  herself  over  and  dived 
after  him  with  the  pilot's  gun  still  going.  Al- 
most immediately  he  heard  the  observer's  gun 
firing,  and,  stopping  his  own,  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  and  saw  the  full  width  of  the  other 
Hun's  wings  wheeling  close  astern  of  them. 
Immediately  he  checked  his  dive  and  flattened 
out  to  give  his  observer  a  fair  shot,  and  knew 
instantly  from  the  long-sustained  rattle  of  the 
observer's  gun  that  the  chance  had  been  seen 
and  taken. 

He  leaned  out  and  peered  down  for  sight 
of  the  other  machine,  and  then — ^his  heart 
jumped  at  the  unmistakable  sound  and  throb 
— his  engine  missed,  picked  up,  missed  again, 
cut  out,  and  stopped  completely.  The  '^Game- 
cock's" speed,  held  as  she  was  at  the  moment 
on  a  slightly  upward  slant,  began  to  fall 
away,  and  the  pilot  hurriedly  thrust  her  nose 
down  and  went  off  in  a  long  glide,  while  he 
tried  desperately  every  device  he  knew  to  get 
his  engine  started  again.  There  was  no  sign 
of  the  petrol  leaking,  so  he  knew  the  tanks  were 


220  THE  SEQUEL 

not  hit,  but  on  the  off-chance  he  switched 
on  to  the  emergency  tink — without  result. 
Oil  pressure  was  all  right,  and — he  broke  off 
to  glance  round  as  the  rat  de  of  fire  came  again 
to  his  ear.  His  observer  was  standing  up 
blazing  at  one  machine  which  swooped  after 
them  closing  in  on  the  one  side,  while  the  other 
climbed  and  swung  in  from  the  other.  The 
pilot  groaned.  There  was  just  a  last  faint 
chance  that  they  might  manage  to  glide  with- 
out engine  back  over  the  line,  provided  the 
observer  could  stand  off  the  two  attackers 
and  prevent  the  *' Gamecock"  being  shot  to 
pieces.  The  chance  was  so  small  that  it  was 
hardly  worth  taking,  but  since  it  was  the  last 
and  only  chance  the  pilot  swept  round  until 
his  nose  was  for  home,  gave  the  "Gamecock" 
a  good  downward  plunge  to  get  her  speed  up, 
eased  into  a  glide,  and  turned  his  attention  to 
the  engine  again.  The  two  hostiles,  supposing 
his  engine  hit  or  at  least  seeing  it  out  of  action, 
leaped  after  and  past  the  "Gamecock,"  and, 
whirling  inward,  each  poured  a  burst  of  fire 
upon  her.  They  were  repeating  the  tactic, 
which  shielded  them  from  the  observer's  fire, 
and  the  "Gamecock's"  chances  began  to 
fade  to  nothingness,  when  the  game  took  a 
fresh  turn.  A  scarlet-nosed  grey  shape  flashed 
up  out  of  nowhere  apparently,  past  the  "Game- 
cock"— as  swiftly  past  her  as  if  she  were  stand- 
ing still — and  hurtled  straight  at  the  nearest 
Hun,  spitting  a  stream  of  fire  upon  him.  The 
Hun,    with   the   bullets   hailing   and    cracking 


THE  SEQUEL  221 

about  him,  checked  and  wheeled;  but  without 
a  break  the  stream  of  drumming  bullets  beat 
and  tore  in  under  his  fuselage,  and  just  as  the 
red  and  grey  scout  zcomed  up  and  over  him  he 
dived,  a  spurt  of  fire  flashed  out  from  him,  and 
he  whirled  down  out  of  the  fight  with  black 
smoke  pouring  from  him  in  clouds.  The  other 
hostile  spun  round  and  streaked  off,  with  our 
victorious  scout  tearing  after  him.  And  at 
that  moment  the  ** Gamecock's"  engine  sput- 
tered, stopped,  spat  and  sputtered  again,  picked 
up  and  droned  out  in  full  song. 

The  observer  seized  the  communicating  'phone 
and  shouted  into  it.  *'Are  we  damaged,  d'you 
know?" 

'^Lord  knows,"  the  pilot  shouted  back.  ''She 
seems  to  be  running  all  right  though.  What 
next?" 

"Back  where  we  broke  off  the  shoot,"  yelled 
the  observer.  "Three  batteries  to  put  'em  on 
yet;  and  look  at  the  time." 

The  pilot  glanced  at  his  clock.  It  was  nearing 
the  "zero  hour,"  the  moment  when  the  infantry 
would  be  swarming  out  into  the  open  No  Man's 
Land — and  into  the  fire  of  those  enemy  batteries 
upon  which  the  "Gamecock"  had  not  yet 
directed  our  guns.  Both  pilot  and  observer 
knew  how  much  it  meant  to  have  those  hostile 
batteries  silenced.  The  word  had  come  from 
Headquarters  and  had  passed  down  to  the 
Squadron  that  it  was  very  certain,  from  the 
fact  that  the  batteries  had  been  kept  concealed 
and  had  not  fired  up  to  now,  they  were  meant 


222  THE  SEQUEL 

to  be  used  for  repelling  the  attack,  that  they 
would  be  reserved  and  unmasked  only  when 
the  infantry  began  their  advance,  that  they 
would  then  unloose  a  tern  )est  of  destroying  fire 
on  the  attackers. 

And  because  both  pilot  and  observer  had 
served  a  time  in  the  infantry  before  they  joined 
the  Flying  Corps,  they  knew  just  what  it  meant 
to  the  infantry  to  have  such  a  fire  to  make  way 
against,  and  both  turned  anxiously  back  to 
complete  their  job. 

Down  below  the  ground  was  hidden  under  a 
drifting  haze  of  smoke  and  dust,  and  the  ^'Game- 
cock" circled  slowly  while  pilot  and  observer 
searched  for  their  objectives.  They  found  the 
other  spots  on  which  they  had  directed  the 
guns — spots  which  now  were  marked  by  whirling, 
eddying  clouds  through  which  the  bursting 
high-explosive  still  flamed  red  at  quick  inter- 
vals. From  there  at  last  they  found  the  next 
target,  and  the  observer  hastily  signalled  back 
to  his  battery  to  fire.  The  engine  was  giving 
trouble  again,  missing  every  now  and  then, 
running  slowly  and  laboriously,  while  the 
pilot  fiddled  and  fretted  about  throttle  and 
spark  and  petrol  feed  and  tried  to  coax  her  into 
better  running.  The  observer  failed  to  catch 
the  puffing  smoke  of  the  battery's  first  shot  and 
signalled  the  code  to  fire  again.  Before  the 
next  shot  came,  a  stutter  of  machine-gun  fire 
broke  out  overhead,  and  pilot  and  observer 
glanced  quickly  up  at  the  clouds  that  drifted 
over  and  hid  the  fighters.     The  machine-gun 


THE  SEQUEL  223 

fire  rose  and  fell  in  gusts,  and  then  out  of  the 
cloud  1,000  feet  up  a  machine  whirled  and  spun 
down  past  them,  recovered  an  instant  and  shot 
eastward  in  a  steep  gliding  plunge,  fell  away 
suddenly,  and  crashed  amongst  the  trenches. 

Immediately  after  her  there  fell  out  of  the 
sky  a  cluster  of  machines,  wheeling  and  circling 
and  diving  at  each  other  like  a  swarm  of  fighting 
jackdaws.  The  *' Gamecock"  suddenly  found 
herself  involved  in  a  scrimmaging  mix-up  with- 
out her  crew  knowing  who  or  what  was  in  it. 
A  pair  of  wings,  with  thick  black  crosses  painted 
on  them,  whizzed  across  the  *' Gamecock's" 
bows,  and  the  pilot  promptly  ripped  off  a  quick 
burst  of  fire  at  her  as  she  passed.  **  Never 
mind  them,"  shouted  the  observer,  *'get  on 
with  the  shoot,"  and  leaned  out  from  his  cockpit 
to  watch  for  the  fall  of  the  next  shell.  ^The 
'^ Gamecock"  resumed  her  steady  circling,  while 
the  fight  raged  round  and  over  her  and  drifted 
in  wheeling  rushes  clear  of  her  and  away  quarter, 
half  a  mile  to  the  south. 

But  they  were  not  to  be  left  unmolested.  A 
Hun  two-seater  dropped  out  of  the  fight  and 
raced  at  the  ''Gamecock,"  putting  in  a  burst  of 
fire  from  his  bow  gun  as  he  came,  wheeHng 
round  the  "Gamecock's"  stern  and  pouring 
bullets  on  her  from  the  observer's  gun.  The 
hostile  was  tremendously  fast,  and  the  ''Game- 
cock" with  her  crotchety  engine  was  no  match 
for  him.  The  observer,  for  all  his  anxiety  to 
finish  the  shoot,  was  forced  to  defend  himself,  and 
he  turned  to  his  gun  with  black  rage  in  his  heart. 


224  THE  SEQUEL 

"Brute/'  he  growled,  and  loosed  a  stream  of 
bullets  at  the  shape  astern.  "I'd  like  to  down 
you  just  for  your  beastly  interference,"  and  his 
gun  rattled  off  another  jet  of  bullets.  The  enemy 
swooped  down  and  under  the  "Gamecock's" 
tail  with  his  gun  hammering  viciously.  The 
pilot  lifted  her  nose  so  as  to  sink  the  tail  planes 
and  rudder  clear  of  the  observer's  line  of  fire 
and  give  him  a  shot,  but  the  "Gamecock"  had 
barely  speed  enough  for  the  manoeuvre,  lost 
way,  stalled  badly,  slid  backward  with  a  rush, 
and  plunged  down. 

They  were  dangerously  low  for  such  a  fall, 
and  the  pilot  waited  heart  in  mouth  for  the 
instant  when  she  would  right  herself  enough 
for  him  to  resume  control.  He  caught  her 
at  last  and  straightened  her  out,  and  at  the 
same  instant  her  enemy  following  her  down 
dived  past  and  up  under  her,  where  he  was 
out  of  reach  of  the  observer's  gun.  The  pilot 
wrenched  her  round  in  a  narrow  circle  that 
brought  her  pivoting  on  her  wing-tip,  and 
allowed  the  observer  to  look  and  point  his  gun 
straight  overside  and  directly  down  on  the 
enemy.  He  got  off  one  short  burst,  and  this 
time  saw  some  of  his  tracer  bullets  break  in 
sparks  of  fire  about  the  fuselage  and  pilot's 
cockpit.  They  did  damage  too,  evidently,  be- 
cause the  Hun  broke  off  the  action,  drove  off 
full  pelt  to  the  eastward  just  as  the  "Game- 
cock" dropped  in  a  dangerous  side-slip.  Again 
her  pilot  caught  and  steadied  her,  and  began 
to  climb  her  slowly  and  staggeringly  to  a  higher 


THE  SEQUEL  225 

level.  Those  last  wrenching  turns  and  plunges 
had  been  too  severe  a  strain  on  her  shaken 
frame,  and  now,  as  she  climbed,  both  pilot  and 
observer  could  hear  and  feel  a  horrible  jarring 
vibration.  They  were  not  more  than  3,000 
feet  up,  but  the  engine  threatened  to  refuse  to 
lift  them  higher,  and  when  it  choked  and  stut- 
tered and  missed  again,  the  '^ Gamecock"  shiv- 
ered and  almost  stalled  once  more.  The  pilot 
hurriedly  thrust  her  nose  down  and  swept  down 
in  a  long  rush  to  pick  up  flying  speed  again. 
''Get  on,"  he  yelled  back.  ''Get  on  with  your 
shoot.  I  daren^t  try'n  climb  her,  and  there's 
no  stunt  left  in  her  if  another  Hun  comes.  A 
brace  parted  in  that  last  scrap" — and  he  turned 
to  his  engine  again,  and  swung  the  "Gamecock" 
in  a  wide  circle. 

Once  more  the  observer  signalled  his  battery 
to  fire.  This  time  there  was  no  difficulty  in 
finding  his  target,  because  the  "zero  hour" 
had  come;  there  were  little  dots  swarming 
out  over  the  No  Man's  Land  below,  and  the 
hostile  batteries  the  "Gamecock"  was  looking 
for  were  flaming  out  in  rapid  sheets  of  vivid 
fire,  and  their  shells  pounding  down  amongst 
our  infantry.  The  "Gamecock"  circled  slowly 
over  the  batteries,  losing  height  steadily,  be- 
cause her  pilot  had  to  keep  her  nose  down  so 
that  the  glide  would  help  out  her  failing  engine 
and  maintain  her  flying  speed.  Her  observer 
was  picking  out  shell-burst  after  shell-burst 
with  greater  and  greater  difficulty  in  the  reek 
below,  signaUing  back  the  corrections  to  the  guns. 


226  THE  SEQUEL 

By  now  the  '^ Gamecock'*  was  low  enough 
to  come  within  range  of  the  rifles  and  machine- 
guns  turned  up  on  her.  The  batteries  below 
her  knew  that  she  was  '^spotting"  on  them, 
and  did  everything  possible  to  knock  her  out; 
while  their  gunners,  having  at  last  got  the  word 
of  the  beginning  of  the  attack,  opened  a  furious 
rate  of  fire  barraging  the  No  Man's  Land.  The 
observer  above  them  saw  those  streaming  flashes, 
and  knowing  what  they  meant,  stuck  doggedly 
to  his  task,  although  now  the  bullets  were  hissing 
close  and  thick  about  them,  and  the  windage 
from  the  rushing  shells  of  our  own  heavy  guns 
and  the  air-eddies  from  the  guns  firing  below 
set  the  '^Gamecock"  rocking  and  bumping 
and  rolling  like  a  toy  boat  in  a  cross  tide.  The 
observer  felt  a  jarring  crash  under  his  hand, 
a  stab  of  pain  in  his  fingers  and  up  his  arm. 
The  wireless  instrument  had  been  smashed  by 
a  bullet  as  he  tapped  a  signal.  He  shouted  to 
the  pilot,  and  the  pilot  slowly  turned  a  white, 
set  face  to  him  and  called  feebly  into  the  'phone. 
'^Hit"  was  the  only  word  the  observer  caught; 
and  ''Get  her  back  as  far  as  you  can  and  shove 
her  down  anywhere,"  he  shouted  instantly  in 
answer.  The  ''Gamecock"  swung  slowly  round 
and  lurched  drunkenly  back  towards  their  own 
lines.  The  observer  looked  at  his  clock.  It 
was  already  past  the  "zero  hour." 

Down  below  in  the  front  fine  the  battalions 
had  waited  for  that  moment,  crouched  in  the 
bottom  of  their  trenches,  listening  to  the  rolling 
thunder  of  the  guns,  glancing  at  watches,  examin- 


THE  SEQUEL  227 

ing  and  re-examining  rifles  and  bombs  and  equip- 
ment. One  battalion  in  the  Elbow  Trench  had 
been  shelled  rather  heavily  about  dawn,  but 
the  fire  had  died  away  before  the  moment  for 
the  attack,  smothered  probably  by  the  greater 
volume  of  our  artillery  fire.  At  last  a  word 
passed  down  the  trench,  and  the  men  began  to 
clamber  out  and  form  into  line  beyond  their 
own  wire.  They  could  see  nothing  of  the  enemy 
trench,  although  it  was  only  little  more  than 
150  yards  away.  Its  outline  was  hidden  in 
a  thick  haze  of  smoke,  although  its  position 
was  still  marked  by  spouting  columns  of  smoke 
and  flying  earth  and  debris  from  our  bursting 
shells.  But  exactly  on  the  '^zero  hour"  these 
shell-bursts  ceased  and  over  the  heads  of  the 
infantry  the  hghter  shrapnel  began  to  rip  and 
crash,  pouring  a  torrent  of  bullets  along  the 
earth  in  front  of  the  line  as  it  started  to  move 
forward. 

There  was  little  rifle  or  machine-gun  fire  to 
oppose  the  advance,  and  although  many  shells 
were  passing  over,  only  odd  and  ill-directed 
ones  were  dropping  in  the  open  No  Man's 
Land.  It  began  to  look  as  if  the  steadily- 
moving  line  was  going  to  reach  the  first  trench 
with  very  little  loss.  But  suddenly,  with  sharp 
whooping  rushes,  a  string  of  shells  fell  in  a  precise 
line  exactly  across  the  path  of  the  advancing 
battalion;  and  before  their  springing  smoke- 
clouds  had  fairly  risen,  came  another  crashing 
and  crackling  burst  of  shells  along  the  same 
line;    and  then  there  fell  a  thick  curtain  of 


228  THE  SEQUEL 

smoke  and  fire  along  the  battalion's  front,  a 
curtain  out  of  which  the  rapidly  falling  shells 
flamed  and  winked  in  red  and  orange  glares, 
and  the  flying  splinters  screeched  and  whined 
and  whirred. 

The  left  half  of  the  battalion  came  through 
fairly  lightly,  for  the  barrage  was  mainly  across 
the  path  of  the  right  half,  but  that  right  half 
was  simply  shot  to  pieces.  The  bursting 
shells  caught  the  men  in  clumps,  the  ragged 
splinters  cut  others  down  one  by  one  in  rapid 
succession.  The  line  pressed  on  doggedly,  stum- 
bling and  fumbling  through  the  acrid  smoke  and 
fumes,  stunned  and  dazed  by  the  noise,  the 
crashing  shock  of  the  detonations,  the  quick- 
following  splashes  of  blinding  hght  that  flamed 
amongst  them.  The  line  pressed  on  and  came 
at  last — what  was  left  of  it — through  the  wall 
of  fire.  Behind  it  the  torn  ground  was  lit- 
tered thick  with  huddled  khaki  forms,  with 
dead  lying  still  and  curiously  indifferent  to 
the  turmoil  about  them,  with  wounded  crawl- 
ing and  dragging  themselves  into  shell-craters 
in  desperate  but  vain  attempts  to  escape  the 
shells  and  shrieking  fragments  that  still  deluged 
down  from  the  sky  amongst  them.  The 
remains  of  the  line  staggered  on,  the  men  pant- 
ing and  gasping  and  straining  their  eyes  eagerly 
for  sight  of  the  parapet  ahead  that  marked 
their  first  objective,  that  would  give  them 
cover  from  the  raging  shell-fire,  that  would 
need  nothing  more  than  a  few  minutes*  bomb 
and  bayonet  work  to  make  their  own. 


THE  SEQUEL  229 

They  were  just  taking  vague  comfort,  such 
of  them  as  had  thought  for  anything  but  the 
trench  ahead  and  the  hope  of  clearing  the  deadly 
No  Man's  Land,  at  finding  themselves  through 
that  barraging  wall  of  flame  and  rending  steel, 
when  the  yelling  rushes  of  the  overhead  shells 
paused  a  moment,  to  burst  out  again  with 
full  renewed  violence  next  instant  as  the  enemy 
guns  shortened  their  range.  The  barrage  had 
dropped  back,  the  curtain  of  fire  was  again 
rolling  down,  spouting  and  splashing  and  flaming 
across  the  path  of  the  shattered  battalion. 
The  broken  line  pushed  on  and  into  the  barrage 
again  .  .  .  and  from  it  this  time  emerged  no 
more  than  a  scattered  handful  of  dazed  and 
shaken  men.  But  the  parapet  was  close  ahead 
now,  and  the  handful  took  fresh  grip  of  their 
rifles  and  ran  at  it.  Some  fifty  men  perhaps 
reached  it;  the  rest  of  a  full  500  were  left  lying 
on  the  open  behind  them,  waiting  for  the  stretcher 
bearers — or  the  burying  parties. 

The  "Gamecock's"  pilot  managed  to  bring 
her  back  into  the  lines  of  our  old  trenches  and 
pancaked  her,  dropped  her  flat  and  neatly  into 
a  thicket  of  barbed  wire  that  clutched  and  rent 
her  to  ribbons,  but  held  her  from  turning  over. 

The  observer  clambered,  and  the  pilot  was 
lifted  down  from  the  cockpits  and  taken  to  a 
dug-out  where  a  First  Aid  Post  had  been  estab- 
lished. The  Post  and  the  trenches  round  it 
were  crowded  with  wounded  men.  The  pilot 
was  attended  to — ^he  was  already  far  spent 
with  two  bad  body  wounds — and  the  observer 


230  THE  SEQUEL 

while  he  had  his  hand  dressed  asked  for  news  of 
the  attack.  *^ Don't  know  much,"  said  the 
doctor,  ^'except  that  my  own  battahon  had  a 
bad  doing.  Left  half  got  over  with  little  loss 
but  the  right  half  had  to  go  through  a  barrage 
and  was  just  about  wiped  out.  These" — with 
a  jerk  of  his  head  to  the  casualties — *'are  some 
of  'em.     But  most  are  out  there — killed." 

^'I  saw  the  barrage  as  we  came  back,"  said 
the  observer  bitterly.  ''Across  the  Elbow 
Trench?  Yes,  and  about  the  only  bit  of  the 
whole  line  they  managed  to  barrage  properly. 
And  they  could  only  do  that  because  we  couldn't 
out  the  guns  that  laid  it  down.  Couldn't  do 
our  job  properly  and  counter-battery  them 
because  we  were  up  on  a  crock  of  a  'bus  that  the 
Huns  could  fly  rings  round,  and  that  let  us  down 
into  rifle  range  and  got  him" — nodding  his 
head  at  the  recumbent  pilot — ''his  dose.  All 
just  for  want  of  a  good  machine  under  us." 

"Chuck  it,  old  man,"  said  the  pilot  faintly. 
"The  old  'Gamecock'  did  her  best  .  .  .  and 
stood  to  it  pretty  well  considering." 

"Mighty  well,"  said  the  observer  hastily, 
suddenly  aware  that  he  had  spoken  louder  than 
he  meant.  "I'm  not  grousing.  It's  a  sheer 
matter  of  luck  after  all.  How  d'you  feel  now? 
Any  easier?" 

But  he  was  wrong.  It  was  not  luck.  It  was 
the  Sequel.  The  doubtfully  efficient  machine 
sent  on  dangerous  work,  the  unsilenced  batteries 
and  high-explosive  barrage,  the  hundreds  of 
dead  men  lying  out  in  the  open,  the  "Game- 


THE  SEQUEL  231 

cock's^*  pilot  dying  slowly  there  in  the  trampled 
mud  of  the  dug-out  under  the  flickering  candles' 
light  were  all  part  of  the  Sequel — a  sequel,  of 
which  the  aircraft  strikers  had  never  thought, 
to  a  strike  of  which  the  dead  and  dying  men  had 
never  even  heard. 


^'We  were  battered  all  round  the  ring  at  first, 

We  were  hammered  to  hell  and  back, 
But  we  stood  to  old  Frightful  Fritz's  worst 

And  we  came  for  another  whack. 
Now  the  fight's  swung  round;  now  we're  winning  fast, 

And  we'll  make  it  a  knock-out  too, 
If  Home  doesn't  let  us  down  at  the  last. 

If  our  backers  will  see  it  through." 


XVIII 

THE  RAID-KILLERS 

The  stout  man  in  the  corner  of  the  First  Smoker 
put  down  his  paper  as  the  train  ran  through  the 
thinning  outskirts  of  the  town  and  into  patches 
of  suburban  greenery.  It  was  still  daylight, 
but  already  the  pale  circle  of  an  almost  full  moon 
was  plain  to  be  seen.  "Ha/'  said  the  stout  man, 
"perfect  night!"  An  elderly  little  man  in  the 
opposite  corner  also  glanced  out  of  the  window. 
"Perfect,"  he  agreed,  "bit  too  perfect.  Full 
moon,  no  wind,  clear  sky,  no  clouds.  All  means 
another  raid  to-night,  I  suppose."  The  full 
compartment  for  the  next  few  minutes  bubbled 
with  talk  of  raids,  and  Gothas,  and  cellars,  and 
the  last  raid  casualties,  and  many  miraculous 
escapes,  t  There  were  many  diverse  opinions  on 
all  these  points,  but  none  on  the  vital  one.  'It 
J  was  accepted  by  all  that  it  was  a  perfect  night 
for  a  raid  and  that  the  Gothas  would  be  over — 
certain — some  time  before  morning. 

Dusk  was  just  beginning  to  fall  on  an  aero- 
drome in  the  British  lines  when  the  big  black 
machines  were  rolled  out  of  the  hangars  and  lined 
up  in  a  long  row  on  the  grass.    Pilots  ^nd 

232 


THE  RAID-KILLERS  233 

Observers,  already  in  flying  kit,  were  moving 
about  amongst  the  machines  and  watching  the 
final  touches  put  to  the  preparations  for  the 
trip.  The  Squadron  Commander  stood  talking 
to  the  Pilot  and  Observer  of  the  machine  which 
was  to  lead  the  way.  He  glanced  at  his  watch 
for  the  tenth  time  in  as  many  minutes.  "  You Ve 
got  a  perfect  night  for  it,  anyhow,"  he  said. 
'^Topping,"  agreed  the  Pilot.  "And  just  as 
perfect  for  the  Huns'  trip  to  England,"  said 
the  Observer.  "Wonder  how  H.Q.  are  so  sure 
about  them  starting  on  a  raid  from  Blanken- 
querke  'drome  to-night,"  remarked  the  Pilot. 
The  Squadron  Commander  grinned.  "They're 
certain  about  a  heap  of  things,"  he  said.  "They 
don't  always  come  off,  maybe,  but  they  get  on 
the  mark  wonderfully  well  as  a  rule.  Anyhow, 
they  were  dead  positive  about  the  reliability  of 
the  information  to-night." 

"Wouldn't  take  a  witch  or  an  Old  Moore  to 
make  a  prophecy  on  it  to-night,"  said  the  Ob- 
server with  a  laugh.  "Knowing  how  full  out 
the  old  Hun  has  been  lately  to  strafe  London, 
and  seeing  what  a  gorgeous  night  it  is,  I'd  have 
made  a  prophecy  just  as  easy  as  H.Q.  I'd  even 
have  made  a  bet,  and  that's  better  evidence." 

"Ought  to  be  getting  ready,"  said  the 
Squadron  Commander,  with  another  look  at  his 
watch.  "Plenty  of  time,  but  we  can't  afford 
to  risk  any  hitch.  You  want  to  be  off  at  the 
tick  of  the  clock." 

"Be  an  awful  swindle,  certainly,  if  we  got  there 
and  found  the  birds  flown,"  said  the  Observer. 


234  THE  RAID-KILLERS 

^'Don^t  fret,"  said  the  CO.  "The  Lord  ha^ 
mercy  on  'em  if  they  try  to  take  off  while  old 
Jimmy's  lot  are  keeping  tab  on  'em,  or  before 
it's  too  dark  for  him  to  see  them  move." 

There  were  a  few  more  not-for-publication 
remarks  on  the  usefulness  of  "  Jinimy's  lot,"  and 
the  effectiveness  of  the  plans  for  ''keeping  tab" 
on  the  German  'drome,  and  Pilot  and  Observer 
turned  to  cHmb  to  their  places.  "All  things 
considered,"  said  the  Observer,  "I'm  dashed  if 
I'd  fancy  those  Huns'  job  these  times.  We 
give  'em  rather  a  harrying  one  way  and  another. 
Must  be  wearin'  to  the  nerves." 

The  Pilot  grunted.  "What  about  ours?"  he 
said. 

The  Observer  laughed.  "Ours,"  he  said,  and, 
as  the  joke  sank  in,  laughed  again  more  loudly, 
and  climbed  to  his  place  still  chuckling. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  the  air  vibrated  to 
the  booming  roar  of  the  engines  as  they  ran  up, 
were  found  in  good  order,  and  eased  off.  The 
dusk  was  creeping  across  the  sky  and  blurring 
the  trees  beyond  the  aerodrome,  and  overhead 
the  moon  was  growing  a  deeper  and  clearer 
yellow.  The  Squadron  Commander  walked 
along  the  line  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  the 
different  Pilots  sitting  ready  and  waiting.  He 
walked  back  to  the  Leader's  machine  and 
nodded  his  head.  "All  ready,"  he  shouted; 
"just  on  time.  Push  off  soon  as  you  like  now 
— and  good  luck." 

The  quiet  "ticking  over"  of  the  propeller 
speeded  up  and  up  until  the  blades  dissolved 


THE  RAID-KILLERS  235 

into  quivering  rays  of  faint  light;  the  throaty- 
hum  deepened,  grew  louder  and  louder,  stayed 
a  moment  on  the  fullest  note,  sank  again,  and 
as  the  Pilot  signalled  and  the  chocks  were  jerked 
clear  rose  roaring  again,  while  the  machine 
rolled  lumbering  and  lurching  heavily  out  into 
the  open,  its  navigation  Hghts  jerking  and  jump- 
ing as  it  merged  into  the  darkness.  The  lights 
swung  in  a  wide  curve,  slowed  and  steadied, 
began  to  move  off  at  increasing  speed  to  where  a 
pin-point  of  light  on  the  ground  gave  the  pilot  a 
course  to  steer,  lifted  smoothly  and  on  a  long 
slant,  and  went  climbing  off  into  the  dark. 

The  moonlight  was  clear  and  strong  enough 
for  men  on  the  ground  to  see  all  sorts  of  details 
of  the  machines  still  waiting,  the  mechanics  about 
them,  the  hangars  and  huts  round  the  'drome. 
But  no  more  than  seconds  after  it  had  left  the 
ground  the  rising  machine  was  gone  from  sight, 
could  only  be  followed  when  and  as  its  lights 
gleamed  back.  Once  it  swept  droning  overhead, 
and  then  circled  out  and  boomed  off  straight  for 
the  lines. 

Pilot  and  Observer  were  both  long-trained 
and  skilled  night-fliers.  They  crossed  the  line 
at  the'  selected  point  and  at  a  good  height,  look- 
ing down  on  the  quivering  patchwork  ribbon 
of  Ught  and  shadow  that  showed  the  No  Man's 
Land  and  the  tossing  flare  lights  from  the 
trenches,  the  spurting  flashes  of  shell-bursts, 
the  jumping  pin-prick  lights  from  the  rifles. 
The  engine  roar  drowned  all  sound,  until  sud- 
denly a  yowl  and  a  rending  ar-r-r-gh  close  astern 


236  THE  RAID-KILLERS 

told  them  that  Archie  was  after  them.  Faintly 
they  heard  too  the  quick  wisp-wisp  of  passing 
machine-gun  or  rifle  bullets,  the  sharp  crack  of 
one  or  two  close  ones,  and  then  silence  again 
except  for  the  steady  roar  of  the  engine  and  the 
wind  by  their  ears. 

Ahead  of  them  a  beam  of  light  stabbed  up 
into  the  sky,  swept  slowly  in  widening  circles, 
jerked  back  across  and  across.  The  big  machine 
barely  swung  a  point  off  her  course,  held  steadily 
to  a  line  that  must  take  her  almost  over  the  spot 
from  which  the  groping  finger  of  light  waved.  A 
spit  of  flame  licked  upward,  followed  quickly  by 
another  and  another,  and  next  instant  three 
quick  glares  leaped  and  vanished  in  the  darkness 
ahead.  A  second  search-light  flamed  up,  and 
then  a  third,  and  all  three  began  swinging  their 
beams  up  and  down  to  cover  the  path  the  bomber 
must  cross.  The  bomber  held  straight  on,  but 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  waving  lights  the 
roar  of  her  engine  ceased  and  she  began  to  glide 
gently  towards  them.  The  lights  kept  their 
steady  to-and-fro  swinging  for  a  moment;  the 
Night-Flier  swam  smoothly  towards  them,  swung 
sharply  as  one  beam  swept  across  just  clear  of 
her  nose,  dodged  behind  it,  and  on  past  the 
moving  line  of  light.  One  moment  Pilot  and 
Observer  were  holding  their  breath  and  staring 
into  a  vivid  white  radiance;  the  next  the  radi- 
ance was  gone  and  they  were  straining  their 
eyes  into  a  darkness  that  by  contrast  was  black 
as  pitch.  The  engine  spluttered,  boomed,  and 
roared  out  again;  the  lights  astern  flicked  round 


THE  RAID-KILLERS  237 

and  began  groping  wildly  after  then?.,  and  spurt 
after  spurt  of  fire  from  the  ground,  glare  after 
glare  in  the  darkness  round  and  before  them,  told 
that  Archie  was  hard  at  it  again.  The  Observer 
leaned  over  to  the  Pilot's  ear  and  shouted 
"Dodged  'em  nicely." 

"Jacky's  turn  next,''  answered  the  Pilot,  and 
began  glancing  back  over  his  shoulder.  "There 
he  comes,"  he  shouted,  and  looking  back  both 
could  see  a  furious  sputter  of  shell-bursts  in  the 
sky,  the  quick  searching  sweeps  of  the  lights 
where  the  second  Night-Flier  was  running  the 
gauntlet.  The  leader  went  on  climbing  steadily 
in  a  long  slant,  and  at  the  next  barrier  of  lights 
and  guns  held  straight  on  and  over  without 
paying  heed  to  the  rush  and  whistle  of  shells, 
the  glare  and  bump  of  their  bursts. 

Mile  after  mile  of  shadowy  landscape  unrolled 
and  reeled  off  below  them. 

The  Observer  was  leaning  forward  looking 
straight  down  over  the  nose  of  the  machine,  un- 
erringly picking  up  landmark  after  mark,  signal- 
ling the  course  to  the  Pilot  behind  him.  At 
last  he  stood  erect  and  waved  his  arms  to  the 
Pilot,  and  instantly  the  roar  of  the  engine  sank 
and  died.  "Steady  as  you  go,"  shouted  the 
Observer,  "nearly  there.  I  can  see  the  Diamond 
Wood." 

"Carry  on,"  the  Pilot  shouted  back,  and  set 
himself  to  nursing  his  machine  down  without 
the  engine  on  as  gentle  a  glide  as  would  keep 
her  on  her  course  and  lose  as  little  height  as 
possible.     The  Observer,  peering  down  at  the 


238  THE  RAID-KILLERS 

marks  below,  gave  the  course  with  a  series  of 
arm  signals,  but  presently  he  whipped  round 
with  a  yell  of  joyful  excitement.  '*  Gottem!  We 
fairly  gottem  this  trip.  Look — dead  ahead." 
The  Pilot  swung  the  machine's  nose  a  shade 
to  the  left  and  leaning  out  to  the  right  looked 
forward  and  down.  ''The  'drome?"  he  shouted. 
'''Drome,"  yelled  the  Observer,  scrambled 
back  to  get  his  head  close  to  the  Pilot's  and 
whooped  again.  "'Drome — and  the  whole 
bunch  of  'em  Hned  up  ready  to  take  off.  See 
their  lights?  Wow!  This  isn't  pie,  what!" 
He  was  moving  hastily  to  get  to  his  place  by 
his  gun  again  when  the  Pilot  reached  out, 
grabbed  his  shoulder,  and  shouted,  "Don't 
go'n  spoil  a  good  thing.  We  don't  want  to  hog 
everything.  Let's  wait  and  get  the  crowd  in 
on  it." 

"Right,"  returned  the  Observer.  "Keep  the 
glide  as  long  as  you  can." 

They  slid  noiselessly  in  to  the  enemy  'drome, 
circled  over  it,  losing  height  steadily,  looking 
down  gloatingly  on  the  twinkling  row  of  lights 
below  them,  and  peering  out  in  a  fever  of  im- 
patience for  sign  of  the  next  machine  of  the 
flight.  But  in  their  anxiety  to  have  a  full  hand 
to  play  against  the  enemy  below  they  nearly 
overplayed.  A  search-light  beam  suddenly  shot 
up  from  the  ground  near  the  'drome.  Another 
leaped  from  a  point  beyond  it.  "They're  on  to 
us,"  yelled  the  Observer.  "Open  her  up  and 
barge  down  on  'em  quick." 

But   the   Pilot   held   his  engine  still.    "It's 


THE  RAID-KILLERS  239 

some  of  the  others  they're  on/'  he  shouted  back, 
as  light  after  light  rose,  and,  after  a  moment's 
groping,  slanted  down  towards  the  west  where  a 
sparkle  of  shell-bursts  showed.  '^Now  for  it. 
Look  out." 

The  line  of  lights  which  marked  the  machines 
below  had  winked  out  at  the  first  burst  of  the 
Archies,  but  the  Night-Flier  had  marked  the 
spot,  her  engine  roared  out,  and  she  went  swoop- 
ing down  the  last  thousand  feet  straight  at  her 
mark.  At  first  sound  of  her  engine  half  a  dozen 
lights  swung  hunting  for  them,  spitting  streams 
of  fire  began  to  sparkle  from  the  defences' 
machine-guns.  The  Night-Flier  paid  no  heed 
to  any  of  them,  dropped  to  a  bare  three  hundred 
feet,  flattened,  and  went  roaring  straight  along 
the  line  of  machines  standing  on  the  'drome 
below.  Crash-crash-crash!  her  bombs  went 
dropping  along  the  line  as  fast  as  hand  could 
pull  the  lever.  Right  down  the  line  from  one 
end  to  the  other  she  went,  the  bombs  crash- 
crashing  and  the  Observer's  gun  pouring  a  stream 
of  fire  into  the  machine  below;  a  quick  hard 
left-hand  turn,  and  she  was  round  and  sailing 
down  the  line  again,  letting  go  the  last  of  her 
bombs,  and  with  the  Observer  feverishly  pelt- 
ing bullets  down  along  it.  Clear  of  the  long 
line,  the  Pilot  was  on  the  point  of  swinging  again 
when  a  huge  black  shape  roared  past  them,  the 
wing-tips  clearing  theirs  by  no  more  than  bare 
feet.  Pilot  and  Observer  craned  out  and  looked 
down  and  back,  and  next  moment  they  saw  the 
glare  and  flash,  heard  the  thump-thump  of  bombs 


240  THE  RAID:KILLERS 

bursting  on  the  ground.  The  Observer  war 
stamping  his  feet  and  waving  his  arms  and  the 
Pilot  yeUing  a  wild  '^Good  shot!''  to  every 
burst,  when  a  rush  and  a  crash  and  the  blinding 
flame  of  a  shell-burst  close  under  their  bows 
recalled  them  to  business.  The  air  by  now 
was  alive  with  tracer  bullets,  thin  streaking  lines 
of  flame  that  hissed  up  round  and  past  them. 
The  Pilot  opened  his  engine  full  out  and  set 
himself  to  climb  his  best.  The  tracers  followed 
them  industriously,  and  the  Archie  shells  con- 
tinued to  whoop  and  howl  and  bump  round  them 
as  they  climbed.  The  Pilot,  craning  out  and 
looking  over,  was  aware  suddenly  of  the  Observer 
at  his  ear  again.  "I  gotta  heap  of  rounds 
left,"  he  was  bawling.  ''Let's  go  down  and  give 
'em  another  dose." 

''Bombs  are  better,"  returned  the  Pilot. 
"Whistle  up  the  pack.  Shoot  a  light  or  drop  a 
flare." 

Next  moment  a  coloured  light  leaped  from  the 
Night-Flier,  and  in  return  a  storm  of  tracers 
came  streaming  and  pelting  about  her.  Another 
light,  and  another  storm  of  bullets,  and  a  couple 
of  search-lights  swept  round,  groped  a  moment, 
and  caught  them.  "Your  gun!"  screamed 
the  Pilot.  "I'm  goin'  for  the  Hght."  The  big 
machine  swerved,  ducked,  and  jerked  out  in  a 
long  side-slip.  At  first  the  light  held  her  fast 
and  the  bullets  came  up  in  a  regular  tornado  of 
whisthng,  spitting  flame  and  smoke,  most  of 
them  hissing  venomously  past,  but  many  hitting 
with  sharp  smacks  and  cracks  and  in  showers 


THE  RAID-KILLERS  241 

of  breaking  sparks  on  wings  and  frame.  But 
another  wild  swoop  and  dive  and  upward  turn 
shook  the  light  off  for  a  moment,  and  then  the 
Night-Flier  put  her  nose  down  and  drove  straight 
at  the  point  from  which  the  sword  of  light 
stabbed  up.  As  they  steadied  and  held  straight, 
the  Observer  swung  his  gun  round,  took  steady- 
aim,  and  opened  fire.  The  light  fumbled  a 
moment,  lit  on  them  again,  and  poured  its 
blinding  glare  full  in  their  faces.  The  Pilot,  his 
eyes  closed  to  narrow  slits,  went  straight  at  the 
glare,  and  the  Observer,  better  equipped  and 
prepared,  jerked  a  pair  of  smoked  glass  goggles 
down  off  his  forehead  and  reopened  fire.  The 
light  vanished  with  a  snap,  and  instantly  the 
Pilot  pulled  the  stick  in  and  hoicked  hard  up. 
A  thousand  feet  up,  with  the  darkness  criss- 
crossed by  waving  search-lights,  the  air  alive 
with  bullets,  the  ground  flaming  and  spurting 
with  Archie  fire,  he  shut  off  engine  a  moment 
and  yelled,  ''Good  shot!  Come  on — try 
another." 

They  tried  another,  the  tracers  flaming  about 
them  and  ripping  through  their  fabrics,  the 
attacked  light  glaring  savagely  at  them  until 
they  swept  with  a  rush  and  a  roar  over  and 
past  it.  Behind  them  more  of  the  Flight  were 
arriving,  and  a  fresh  series  of  bomb-bursts  was 
spouting  and  splashing  on  the  ground  about  the 
enemy  machines  and  amongst  the  hangars  round 
the  'drome.  A  hangar  was  hit  fairly;  a  lick  of 
flame  ran  along  its  roof,  died  a  moment,  rose 
again   in   a   quivering   banner   of  fire,   and   in 


242  THE  RAID-KILLERS 

another  moment  was  a  roaring  blaze.  The 
whole  'drome  was  lit  with  the  red  glow,  and  into 
this  and  through  the  rolling  smoke  clouds  that 
drifted  from  the  fire  machine  after  machine 
came  swooping  and  circling.  The  fire  made  a 
beacon  that  marked  the  spot  from  miles  around, 
and  the  Night-Fliers  had  nothing  to  do  but  steer 
straight  for  it  to  find  their  target.  The  Leader's 
machine,  with  ammunition  almost  expended, 
climbed  high  and  circled  round  watching  the 
performance,  Pilot  and  Observer  yelling  de- 
lighted remarks  at  each  other  as  they  watched 
bomb  after  bomb  smash  fairly  amongst  the 
hangars  or  the  scattered  line  of  machines  stand- 
ing on  the  'drome.  It  was  on  these  machines 
that  most  of  the  Night-Fliers  concentrated. 
Huge  black  twin-engined  "Gotha"  machines, 
something  over  a  dozen  of  them  in  a  row,  they 
made  a  plain  and  unmistakable  target  in  the 
red  light  of  the  fire,  and  an  irresistible  invitation 
to  any  of  the  Night-Fliers  that  came  swooping 
in.  One  after  another  they  came  booming  out 
of  the  darkness  into  the  circle  of  red  light,  swung 
ponderously  and  drove  in  along  over  the  line, 
scattering  bombs  down  its  length,  raking  it 
from  end  to  end  with  machine-gun  fire.  The 
whole  place  was  a  pandemonium  of  smoke,  fire, 
and  noise.  The  search-lights  jerked  and  swept 
frantically  to  and  fro,  the  air  shook  to  the  ex- 
plosion of  the  bombs,  the  splitting  crash  of  the 
Archie  guns  and  bang  of  their  shell-bursts,  the 
continuous  clatter  of  machine-guns  on  the 
ground  and  in  the  air.     Several  times  machines 


THE  RAID-KILLERS  243 

were  caught  in  the  search-Hghts  and  swam  for  the 
moment  bathed  in  staring  Hght,  while  Archies 
and  machine-guns  pelted  them  with  fire.  Most 
of  them  stunted  and  dodged  clear  very  quickly, 
or  had  to  give  in  and  escape  to  the  outer  dark- 
ness, circle  and  wait  and  take  another  chance 
to  edge  in  clear  of  the  blinding  light  and  the 
uprushing  streams  of  tracer  bullets.  One  was 
turned  back  time  after  time  by  the  defences 
and  by  another  search-light  which  clung  to  him 
persistently,  and  would  not  be  shaken  off  for 
more  than  a  moment  by  all  his  dodging  and 
twisting.  Suddenly  over  by  the  light  there 
sprang  a  volcano  of  flame  and  smoke — and  the 
light  was  gone.  Up  above  in  the  Leader's 
machine  the  two  men  were  yelling  laughter  and 
applause,  when  they  saw  another  machine  swim 
into  the  glare  of  another  light.  She  made  no 
attempt  to  dodge  or  evade  it,  struck  a  bee-line 
for  the  row  of  Hun  machines,  droned  straightly 
and  steadily  in  and  along  the  line,  her  bombs 
crashing  amongst  them,  a  sputter  of  flashes  at 
her  bows  telling  of  the  machine-gun  hard  at 
work  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  the  destruc- 
tion. The  light  followed  her  and  held  her  all 
the  way,  and  through  its  beam  the  streaking 
smoke  of  the  tracer  bullets  poured  incessantly, 
the  shell-bursts  flamed  and  flung  billowing  clouds 
of  black  smoke,  the  rocket  fires  reached  and 
clutched  at  her.  Utterly  ignoring  them  all, 
she  held  on  to  the  end  of  the  line,  banked  and 
swung  sharply  round,  and  began  to  retrace  her 
path,  still  held  in  the  glaring  light,  still  pelted 


244  THE  RAID-KILLERS 

with  storming  bullets  and  Archie  shells.  But 
halfway  back  she  lurched  suddenly  and  violently, 
recovered  herself,  swerved  again,  reeled,  and,  in 
one  quick  wild  swooping  plunge,  was  down,  and 
crashed.  A  spurt  of  flame  jumped  from  the 
wreckage,  and  in  two  seconds  it  was  furiously 
ablaze. 

Up  above  Pilot  and  Observer  shouted  ques- 
tions at  each  other —  "Who  was  it  .  .  .  What 
'bus  .  .  .  did  you  see  .  .  .  ?^'  And  neither  could 
answer  the  other.  The  search-lights  rose  and 
began  to  hunt,  apparently,  for  them,  and  Archie 
shells  to  bump  and  blaze  about  them  again. 
Out  to  the  west  search-lights  and  sparkling  Archie 
bursts  showed  where  the  other  machines  were 
making  for  home.  The  Observer  waved  to  his 
Pilot.  "Only  us  left,"  he  shouted,  and  the 
Pilot  nodded,  swung  the  machine  round,  and 
headed  for  the  lines. 

Back  at  their  'drome  they  found  the  Squadron 
Commander  beside  them  before  they  had  well 
taxied  to  a  standstill.  "I  was  getting  anxious," 
he  said;  "you  were  first  away,  but  all  the  others 
are  back — except  three.  And  here  some  of  them 
come,"  he  added,  as  they  caught  the  hum  of  an 
engine.  "One  .  .  .  two,"  he  counted  quickly. 
"That  will  be  all,"  said  the  Leader.  "We  saw 
one  crash,"  and  described  briefly. 

The  two  climbed  out  of  their  machine  and 
walked  slowly  over  with  the  CO.  to  some  of 
the  other  Fliers.  None  of  them  had  seen  the 
crash;  all  had  dropped  their  bombs,  loosed  off 
all  the  rounds  they  could,  and  cleared  out  of  the 


THE  RAID  KILLERS  245 

pelting  fire  as  quickly  as  possible.  All  were 
agreed,  most  emphatically  agreed,  that  the  line 
of  Gothas  was  a  **  complete  write-off,"  and  were 
jubilant  over  the  night's  work — until  they  heard 
of  the  lost  machine. 

As  the  two  machines  dropped  to  ground  and 
past  the  light  switched  on  them  a  moment  all 
there  read  their  marks  and  named  them.  "Bad 
Girl  of  the  Family"  flounced  lightly  in,  and 
''That  leaves  The  Bantam's  bus  and  old 
'Latchkey'  to  come,"  said  the  waiting  men. 
*'Here  she  is  .  .  .  Latchkey!"  There  was  si- 
lence for  a  moment. 

"I  might  have  known,"  said  the  Leader 
slowly — "might  have  known  that  was  little 
Bantam's  bus,  by  the  way  he  barged  in,  regard- 
less. It  was  just  like  him.  Poor  Httle  Bantam 
— and  good  old  Happy!  Two  more  of  the  best 
gone." 

The  CO.  knew  The  Bantam's  mother  and 
was  thinking  of  her  and  the  letter  he  would 
have  to  write  presently.  He  roused  himself  with 
a  jerk.  "Come  along,"  he  said;  "you've  another 
trip  to-night,  remember.  See  you  make  it  help 
pay  for  those  two." 

"They've  gone  a  goodish  way  to  pay  their 
own  score,"  said  the  Leader  grimly.  "And  some 
others.  Anyway,  that  lot  will  do  no  raid  on 
London  to-night." 

.  .  •  •  • 

The  Squadron  was  drowsily  swallowing  hot 
cocoa,  completing  reports  and  lurching  to  bed, 
when  the  stout  man   clambered  to  his  usual 


246  THE  RAID-KILLERS 

corner  seat  in  the  First  Smoker  and  gave  his 
usual  morning  greeting  to  the  others  there 
bound  for  business. 

"Well,"  he  said  jovially,  *'no  Gothas  over 
after  all." 

"Never  even  made  a  try,  apparently,"  said 
the  little  man  opposite.  "Seems  odd.  Such  a 
perfect  night." 

"Very  odd."  .  .  .  "Wonder  why  .  .  ."  "I 
made  sure,"  said  the  compartment.  "I  don't 
understand.  ..." 

They  didn't  understand.  Neither  did  a-many 
thousands  in  London  who  had  been  equally 
certain  of  "Gothas  over"  on  such  a  perfect 
night.  Neither  even  did  they  understand  in  the 
homes  of  "poor  little  Bantam"  and  "good  old 
Happy,"  whither  telegrams  were  already  wend- 
ing, addressed  to  the  next-of-kin. 

But  the  Huns  understood.  And  so  did  the 
Raid-Killers. 


When  you  pray  and  hear  them  say 

Baby  prayers  to-night, 
"Guardian  angels  keep  us  safe 

Till  the  morning  hght," 
Give  a  word  and  give  a  thought, 

If  you've  one  to  spare, 
To  your  guardian  air  men 

Flying  "over  there." 


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